Walking In L
by G.E Waldo
Summary: Summary: Continuation of where One Step Closer Away leaves off. This story is H/W. Doctor James Wilson wants to save House - who is slowly dying - and he'll go to any length. Violence, adult situations, language. This is NOT a death-fic'.
1. Chapter 1

Walking in L.

Part I

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: Continuation of where **One Step Closer Away** leaves off. _**This story is H/W.**_Doctor James Wilson wants to save House - who is slowly dying - and he'll go to any length. Violence, adult situations, language. This is NOT a death-fic'.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a collective request for a sequel from Richie117 and the members of the marvelous Hilson Forum at ./hilson,22/ - I blame YOU! Thank you stimulating my creative juices against my will, Richie and Forum members - I'll get you for this! (Tee-hee). I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

Here is the** link **to **One Step Closer Away**. Seriously, you oughta' read that first.

http : // www . fan fiction . net / s/ 4600963/ 1/ One_Step_Closer_Away (No spaces of course)

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There's nothing like being confronted with your own greatest, and weakest, vulnerability. A man. A heart. The heart of a man.

In all ways physical, as Wilson stood there with all the world's determination gathered in his soul, this weakest link to him, his only, that one small fraction of worldly joy, was failing. The thing within him that had carried him for fifty-two years but was now giving up on its master. Beats, minutes, hours, days...

Sometimes a fraction can equal your whole life.

"We just can't predict with any definite accuracy, Doctor Wilson, how long it will hold out."

Wilson tried not to scream at Michaels, the physician trying to orchestrate a few measly more weeks of life out of the failing organ in question; that sloppy, irregular beating, three hundred grams of life-centristic muscle. The cardiologist seemed to think of it as though it were some separate autonomous entity - no more than an oddly twitching specimen that had not the good sense to give up - and not the blood-pumping center of the man it served. This heart was, as all are, inextricably attached to its owner - in this case - to the sole love of his life. Michaels had spoken as though, if it stopped beating, it would only be the heart that died, and not House.

Desperate to keep his voice level with respect - hard, so hard! - "That heart has a name, you know."

Doctor Michaels mind went back over his own words, catching his own faux paux, catching the _"it". _"Sorry, Doctor Wilson, it's just been a long day."

Wilson had to ask. "What are his chances?"

Gregory House, Doctor House, the famous Diagnostician, currently on medical leave from the work that he loved, had suffered a third heart attack the previous evening. The third in as many years. After a calm dinner of conversation, a television program or two, some couch-snuggling (though no sex as Michaels had advised against it after House's second minor infarction two months previous..._"No sex for the time being - just until House gets stronger." _When _that_ was supposed to have occurred, Michaels hadn't mentioned), House had thrust his cane under him, and stood up to use the bathroom. But, seconds later, had sat right back down again with the oddest look on his face, clutching his right hand to his left shoulder. He'd gave the smallest cough.

_"Did you strain something?" _Had been his own innocent and now, in hindsight, stupid question.

House had said a soft "No.", turned his face to Wilson and stared at him with a look Wilson knew now he will never forget for all the years he would live. An expression that said _"This is it, Wilson, this is the last time I'm ever going to see you. Whaddya' know?"_

An ambulance, a sleepless night for both of them, and a cold hand of fear steadily teasing his own heart since then, Wilson now stood over his drugged, sleeping lover. He wished House's touchy heart was resting as peacefully as House was seeming to.

Doctor Michaels hummed and hawed a bit. "Well, if he keeps up his medication, stays to the regime of mild exercise, stays on the heart-healthy diet and - "

Wilson rested tired eyes in the sweating palm of his left hand. Jesus, the same old crap every time. No wonder House viewed most of his colleagues as morons. Hardly one among them possessed the slightest shred of creativity. Wilson supposed it was why they specialized in things that had only so many pat answers.

Maybe it explained why he himself had gone into oncology.

To the researchers, those who looked at the enemy who appeared from nothing to become a terrible something, cancer was a crafty prey with an ancient memory. Those who caught it up under their slides and scanning microscopes, worked hundreds of hours trying to pry it's tiniest molecules apart, learn its ever-changing secrets, plan and execute their attacks, would then record what minute change for the better or worse their prey might have given up for their efforts. When a small success appeared beneath their scopes, champagne was cracked, and celebrations wrought.

But to him, cancer was the invading force that took no prisoners, and left behind wasted hulks of human beings. Ate pieces out their bones and organs with mocking efficiency. With enough counter-attacks, sometimes the enemy left early enough that the civilian human it had been warring against was not all-the-way ruined. And sometimes, despite a barrage of anti-enemy fire, it came back again with re-enforcement's and overwhelmed the innocent one. For Wilson, cancer was his personal adversary. It was a merciless opponent for sure, but at least one which tactics he knew beforehand. And cancer could almost always be clearly seen, so to strike the arrows.

Cancer was simple, the way he often thought of himself. Conversely, Wilson supposed boredom was why House had gone into diagnostics. Because he was so unbelievably, intelligently creative, mundane medical problems left him intellectually starved. In diagnostics, he could get lost in an seemingly inexplicable unknown and, with a bit of innovative thought, fight his way out to a truth where corresponding action could follow. When it came to understanding the struggle for a diagnosis, or for life, House was a Renaissance man. The unashamed, medical genius.

Wilson was near to snapping his last intact nerve at Michaels routine chatter. He thought grabbing a chair and tossing it through the window might be sufficiently cathartic. Or ripping into the next phlebotomist who walked in to perform yet another useless blood-gas test. "Doctor Michaels," He almost shouted, but at the very last second, managed to keep his fury at a sick-room-level. "_What_ is the prognosis on my husband?"

Michaels sighed. He hated to give any specific time period for the survival of a cardiac patient. Some went years longer than they ought to have, others died days after a reasonably secure bill of health. "Weeks. Three months at the outside." Without a new heart, which Doctor House due to his Vicodin use and history of ill-health since his infarction, would not be granted, such an organ as damaged as his heart had become pretty well a day by day proposition. "I'm sorry."

Wilson nodded, and Michaels left him alone with his sleeping spouse.

Wilson wanted to wake him, but for right now rest - sleep - was _so_ important. As much as he craved the contact, even holding House's hand might inadvertently rouse him, which would speed up his heart rate. Perfectly natural if your heart is perfect. But in the interim, this soon after a heart attack, the more sleep, the better. For many weeks they had not allowed him any shared affection with his mate beyond a cuddle, or spooning at night - a torture that nearly drove him mad.

It wasn't missing the sex, though he did miss it, that hurt. It was the restrictions placed upon him as to the _expression_ of love. The deep physical sharing their sexual intimacies had provided had become partnered with a deep emotional bonding that he himself had never before experienced. The emotional bond was still strongly in place but - _oh_ - it was so much _more_ when it was accompanied by the physical. All things lovingly expressed were fuller when he could touch him when-ever he pleased. house was open, his unbidden, a free-range love. Loving a man openly, embracingly, despite anything or everything, caring for him to the narrowest crack in each others being, was the unfettered universe. In it they were gods. That _freedom_ to love.

Presently, though, Wilson felt like the sickness in House was a totalitarian law, a dictatorship that only allowed so many fingers, and so much skin and that was all. A Hell-being's law. It hurt minute by minute.

A thing Wilson had come to understand within himself was that something had been missing all those years, wives and girlfriends ago. Wilson felt stupid for a long time when he'd at last come across the simple answer. A connection as easy as two friends who love each other. It had taken House a little longer to recognize it, but once he did, had become a supporter of their mutual attraction and feelings to the extent of one incredible Saturday evening, after a few hours away on a mysterious shopping trip he would say nothing about, House returned home and suggested they take a further step in their shared lives in a specific and momentous way.

_Wilson stared at the tiny box containing the twin gold bands nestled in a square inch and a half of black velvet. "House,...is this,...you want,...I mean you want us to...?" He's stuttered stupidly. "Rings??"_

_At House's crest-fallen face and sudden retiring manner, panic came. Wilson - you moron! "Of course. I just never expected...wow." Choking up. "This is very sweet. I want to, yes. Absolutely. This, house, this is overwhelming..." Watering eyes, stammering tongue. Smooth, Wilson, real smooth._

_"If you start blubbering, I'm taking them back." House warned in his half-twinkling with amusement, half-serious manner._

_Wilson waved away such trouble. "No, no blubbering. I promise." He accepted the ring and examined it up close. _

_The bands were thick, heavy, and each engraved with "He's mine!" on the inner circle. Their quality rang like a church bell. They obviously hadn't been cheap. His scruff-muffin House, when it came to the finer things in life, was in fact a man of impeccable taste. _

_Wilson had put it on. It fit perfectly. The rings said they belonged to one another. House was __unequivocally_ _his. House had framed a subtle, simple, and utterly romantic way to ask if Wilson would please marry him._

_Three days later, in a civil ceremony attended by Chase, Foreman and House's flustered but pleased mother, Wilson made it come true._

Warm sun streamed in the window, stabbing him with its virtually endless existence. It would never cease its movement across the floor, and over the wide waking world where life teemed, unbothered by any happening in this small, insignificant room. Under the sun's bright nurture, a billion people would be born over the next twenty years. Why couldn't he be allowed to enjoy just this _one_ for a while longer?

His husband of fifteen months stirred, and Wilson started. Had he been muttering aloud? Before he could slip form the room and let House gather the greatly needed sleep, his step was halted by House himself. "Whr' ya' goin'?"

Weak speech, the ends of the round syllables sloughed off to conserve energy.

Wilson came back to the head of the bed and looked down at him, resting one hand near the thin pillow and the other on House's unmoving right arm. "I wanted to let you sleep."

House swallowed, his throat sounded like it had sand in it. "Could you raise the bed?" Clearer this time. He was all the way awake now.

Wilson obliged and cranked the level until House's upper body was sitting at a 45 degree angle. Why had the nurse not done this earlier?

House breathed easier. "So? What did Michaels say? Am I screwed?"

Wilson struggled not to appear weakened or weepy by the news that he had maybe one or two weeks left to spend with House. For most of those days Michaels would probably want House in the hospital, stuck in a hard bed, while his condition was "monitored", as though that would change anything. Keeping House here would benefit the hospital's reputation - maybe - or make Michaels feel like he was delivering something to his patient besides a death sentence. It might even make himself feel better; keep House physically anchored, rested, properly watched and cared for twenty-four-seven, so he could have him in the world just a few hours longer.

But none of that would make House feel any better, and Wilson was damned if he was going to force House to lay in a hot, white room for the short remainder of his life, so everyone _else_ could feel okay about his dying. "You've been here for nearly twenty-four hours." Wilson said, not really addressing House's flip question. "Tomorrow I'm taking you home."

House looked up at him, the thin plastic lines of the nose cannula snaking their way over to a quietly humming machine that, every few seconds, delivered another puff of cool one hundred percent oxygen to House's respiratory track, struggling to keep the pneumonia at bay and make it so House's sickly heart did not have to work as hard.

There was surprise in House's eyes. "You're going to defy Michaels, and the hospital, for me?"

Wilson nodded, a crack of a smile fractured his lips. "Yeah."

There was a hint of pride in his voice. "I've turned you into a rebel."

"It'll mean signing off. You'll be AMA."

"Well, I'm DND anyway. What difference will it make?"

Wilson frowned. "DND?"

"Damn near - " House stopped when Wilson's face fell to its former relief of etched sorrow. Just barely there, almost imperceptible if you didn't know the man. House knew him. "Forget it, doesn't matter."

Wilson knew of course what House had almost finished saying. A joke. Word fun. House loved that stuff. It had peppered his monologues and their conversations all the years he had known him. But Wilson refused to think it. Not for today. Today, he would look forward to bringing House home tomorrow, and spoiling him rotten for the next two weeks. Because for him, _this_ day, House was no where in the ball park of Damn Near Dead.

House's eye lids were drooping. Already he was tired again, and needed to go back to sleep. Wilson took his hand, and kissed him once on the mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow, babe'."

For the four-hundredth time, House scolded him. A weak whisper. "Stop calling me that."

-

-

Breakfast was scrambled egg-whites, whole wheat toast with honey, and turkey bacon. Wilson had left in a half of one yolk in the eggs at least they _looked_ like they would taste defiant.

Wilson placed the meal in front of House, who dove in. Wilson knew it was bullshit. House's appetite had diminished over the week he had been at home. A sign of advanced cardiac illness, the brain's way of spurring the body to keep blood diverted to its failing pump station and away from the food processor.

Wilson furtively watched House eat while staring down at his own breakfast. Exact same breakfast so House would not so much miss the foods that weren't there. A heart healthy diet was idiotic at this stage of House's illness, but Wilson couldn't help but hope that some miracle might appear to save him. Wilson also knew House knew he was depressed, so House ate to make him feel better. Wilson tried to show his gratitude by not acknowledging the gesture. But House trying to be nice was a clear signal he knew his time was short and that he was worried about Wilson.

Wilson pushed his eggs around on his plate. The smell almost made him gag. Grief stood at the door, knocking. A black-hooded bastard who had no right to soon pass sentence on a man who had worked his whole life to save others. So what if House's reason's were other than altruistic? Weren't people supposed to enjoy life while making sacrifices? Were all people required to wear a face of mourning so their contributions for the good of mankind had the appearance of purity? House could have easily gone into finance. He was a genius. He would have made billions.

But House choose medicine because of a Japanese medical marvel turned janitor who had been snubbed because of his caste. How the man had been treated had pissed House off. But that the man had been right, and that his superiors had been forced to listen to him, that had set House's wheels spinning wildly. Since learning of that experience, Wilson had often wondered whether it was medicine that had chosen _House_, and not the other way around. House had been set on a course that day. A man who could fix almost anyone. And, for all that people for years who had thought of House as some sort of medical snob, who had not adhered to the unwritten social codes among his colleagues, House had never, as far as Wilson knew, made any distinctions as to who did or did not deserve treatment. House drew no lines, and recognized no rules of ethnic, social or racial prerequisites. If you were sufficiently sick to interest him, you were in. House only asked that he not be bored. A pretty even bargain, Wilson thought.

A chance encounter in a Japanese hospital hallway caused the universe to take a lonely boy and carve him into a medical genius. As far as he saw it, if that isn't destiny _properly_ played out, he didn't know what was.

House had answered to his in-born calling and, over the course of a twenty-seven year career as a healer, saved a small town's worth of lives. He shouldn't have to do anything anymore that he didn't really want to do. "If you can't finish it, it's all right."

House stopped chewing and looked across the small dinette table at his partner. Wilson was twisting his wedding band, ignoring his own meal. "I know." He kept eating, watching Wilson's anxious tick. He was really going to miss his lovable, idiot husband.

Then House chided himself for the ridiculous thought. He'd be dead. Thought-free. Missing anything didn't follow.

-

An evening bath, luke-warm as per Michaels' orders, was just the thing to help the pain. The leg didn't care that it's body's heart was working at half power, it still hurt when ever it felt like it, and House massaged the twitching tissue while he sipped from a delicate stemmed glass of rich, red heaven. Wine, it turned out, was good for the heart. A real shame that bourbon wasn't.

He raised the glass to his lips as Wilson tidied up after dinner. Saturday's were great. You were free to do as you pleased and you still had one day left of goofing-off before Monday. Not that he was working anymore. Wilson neither as he had taken a leave of absence of his Administrative duties as Dean to spend time with, and provide almost anything House wanted - an action House thoroughly approved of. Still Saturday still felt like the universally welcomed day of respite from the toil of the everyday man.

Not that he was an everyday man. Unless it came to wanting sex from Wilson. Then he was an every day man. Well, until a few months ago. He missed sex. "Hey Wilson!"

Michaels had said no sex. No intercourse. He hadn't said anything about a blow job. As the one on the receiving end, he wouldn't have to anything but enjoy it. "How about a little sword play?"

Footsteps approached from the kitchen, and Wilson appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a tea towel. "Are you asking for something? I could go put on my Musketeer costume..."

House nodded. "Okay. As long as I get to see you "swallow the saber"." It was good to see Wilson smile. The real McCoy, not a cheap imitation forced into place to hide behind.

"You're a pig."

But Wilson would deny him nothing. House lay his head back against the hard porcelain of Wilson's apartment-cheap bath tub. Right now cheap was okay. Cheap was good. House was thankful that Wilson didn't have one of those old fashioned, more expensive, soaker tubs. Wilson would never have been able to bed his head over the high side of one of those, and suck like the human vacuum cleaner he was.

The only thing that dampened House's bathroom bliss was that,every few minutes or so, Wilson would slow his motions to fumble at House's wrist, in order to check his pulse. If his heart started beating too fast for his liking, or thumping too hard against his two finger's, Wilson would slow down, and sometimes, much to House's mounting frustration, stop altogether and look at him.

"I'm not about to keel over. Get with the mouth-fucking." House finally growled.

Wilson ignored House's grumping, and lowered his mouth again. House was fine for now. They could both enjoy this.

Blow jobs, giving them that is, had never been his strong suit or even among his favorite bedroom activities, but House loved them. Now, because Michaels had dis-allowed all other fun-times, and in the pre-heart trouble years, because his leg had made some sexual positions too painful. Being on top more than occasionally, for example.

But one thing's for sure, House had a silky smooth, damn hot cock so Wilson did his best to let him know that. House was even moaning with the pleasure of it, and that made Wilson smile behind his deep-throated face-bobs. A flash of himself as a boy bobbing for apples at a school Halloween party flashed through his mind and he had to stop for a second to chuckle. House had apples, he thought wickedly, I ought to bob for _those_ next.

Wilson raised his head to share his naughty thoughts with his lover.

As before, House's head was lying back against the tub, his throat stretched out so his Adam's apple was prominent. But his head was also lolled slightly to the right. And his eyes were closed.

_"Oh, jesus..." _

-

-

He rode in the ambulance back to Plainsboro. House's heart beat had become erratic. Wilson had been forced to explain what they had been doing at the time when the "problem became noticeable." The EMT questioning him again and again until he had snarled loudly enough for all bystanders within earshot to hear - _"I was sucking off my husband!"_

Once they had stabilized him, Wilson knew that, once and for all, this was it. House was not going to be going home again. He couldn't. He was now too weak. It was not his fault. A blow job had not given him his fourth, tiny heart attack, but there would be no more times like that. No more meals at home, or television shows seen anywhere but on the hospital's older-model TV set suspended on a metal arm five feet over the bed. Not a comfortable way for House to enjoy Prescription Passion.

House was asleep, and Wilson didn't touch him. He was not going to screw up his rest this time. It was late. The last nurse who had suggested he ought to go home and get some rest himself was met with a look that told her in no uncertain terms where she could stick her advice, and they were left alone for the night. At least it was a private room. He left instructions to the Emergency and UCI staff to each have one nearby kept in reserve at all times.

There would be no sleep for him tonight. House was dying now. It may take him a few days, but it was happening and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. For weeks Wilson had kept his own emotions in check, so to make room and energy enough to handle anything that House might need to feel. But House had been a brick wall through everything. House didn't believe in fate or karma or any last minute salvation (though he had occasionally brought last minute salvation of life to more than a few people via his medical brilliance), House believed that what came was simply what came and you dealt or your didn't - it was your choice.

But Wilson clung to the belief that this was wrong. House dying this young after a life of self sacrifice was unfair and unjust in every way. He was only fifty-two, his body (all except for the one, crucial organ, was still strong and attractive), his brain as sharp as ever, his humor undiminished. His zest for life perhaps not at its peak, but certainly not on the down-hill slide either. House should be here for ten, fifteen years more.

He was going crazy.

Wilson slipped out to the parking lot. He needed to drive and clear his mind. Prepare himself for the future they would never have together. He could have struggled with any one of his previous three wives, and probably not be facing a future alone. Having House, as hard a battle as that had been, had transformed his three painful divorces into a snap of his fingers. _Piff, puff - gone! _Nothing.

What would he have after House was gone? A tidy nest of money in the bank, and a small house, all fully paid for. Wilson had purchased the tiny two bedroom dwelling just outside of Princeton in a pretty sub-divide that used to be farm-land. Away from the rows upon rows of expensive town homes had sat few older, run-down empty houses that had been left available for prospective buyers; those who might want to renovate or do a quick-fix and rent them out.

Wilson had come close to closing a deal on a modern, square, glass and metal townhouse when, while driving by one afternoon, trying to make up his mind about it, he had spotted the tiny pale green house set back from the road, complete with a brush-lined driveway leading up to a tiny graveled parking-pad. The house needed a coat of paint. The yard needed weeks of grooming, the wild weeds and grasses particularly requiring some heavy cutting back, but the place possessed a simple, old charm. It was small and neglected, but it provided privacy and quiet.

Wilson had no idea, however, whether House would want to live in it, so he'd made him his favorite meal of lasagna, garlic toast and cheesecake, and then, using his limited photographic skills, presented the idea along with a lay-out of the best pictures he managed to get of the place.

After babbling on for minutes talking about its hidden virtues, and how they would have their own home and all the privacy they wanted, and how great it would be. Emphasizing that they would have to deal with no more elevators breaking down, and no more cheap land-lords or miserable, noisy neighbors. Wilson had topped his nervous sell with - "_House_ - just think! You can pound on that piano all you want, or crank up your amp until it shatters my teeth, and _no one_ will hear it."

House had listened patiently to Wilson's shaky, hand-twisting delivery, took a single glanced at Wilson's carefully arranged photo's on the table and said "Sure."

He had spent the remainder of their dinner stealing looks across the table to his normally argumentative, negating, yet still full of surprises mate, wondering just where in hell had the _real_ House had got to.

A month later, there were settled in.

They'd had so little time in it together. Four simple walls had become a cocoon of contentment, a home that had added to their already fuller, richer lives since falling in love, but now House wasn't going home again, and the place was a husk without him. Four walls that contained objects to remind him of his dying husband. A place no longer warm and full of care but a mockery for how short that comforting time had been. A structure and that was all.

Wilson pulled the car over. He had driven home on autopilot. He couldn't remember making the correct turns, but never-the-less found himself parked on the freshly poured two-lane road, staring at the faint shade of white paint on his and House's home, somewhere down the shaded lane.

He would have to sell the place. Wilson didn't think he could sleep in their bed again, not alone, if House was not going to be there. Ever. He could barely remember a time when House wasn't in his life. This is what it's like to lose a part of yourself. This is what they mean when his patient or a relative had said that losing his or her mate had been like losing half of themselves. May as well lop off a body part as say goodbye to someone you loved more than even yourself.

Here, parked on a dark road in the middle of the night, staring down the black lane of the only place in the world he had ever been truly happy, with the only person who had ever made him feel that happiness, Wilson finally understood what it was, the meaning behind it, the sounding depths, of loving someone that much. How, too, impossibly painful and criminal, and _vicious_ death was. And how heartless love itself was when it decided it was time for it to leave, taking your precious one with it.

It was all _so_ wrong.

Wilson rested his forehead against the steering wheel and wept.

-

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TCB asap


	2. Chapter 2

Walking in L.

Part II

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: Continuation of where One Step Closer Away leaves off. This story is H/W. Doctor James Wilson wants to save House - who is slowly dying - and he'll go to any length. Violence, adult situations, language. This is NOT a death-fic'.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a collective request for a sequel from Richie117 and the members of the marvelous Hilson Forum at http:// www. housemd. fora. pl /hilson, 22/ (No spaces of course) - I blame YOU! Thank you stimulating my creative juices against my will, Richie and Forum members - I'll get you for this! (Tee-hee). I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

**Just a reminder - this story acknowledges Season 3 but there-after does not follow cannon.**

Here is the link to One Step Closer Away. Seriously, you oughta' read that first.

http: // www . fanfiction . net /s / 4600963 / 1/ One_Step_Closer_Away (No spaces of course)

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Showers used to be cleansing. Now he took them, sometimes two or three times a day, just for the fresh-dressed-and-ready-to-conquer-the-world feeling. That emotional tingle that gave him a few minutes of mindless buzz. But it always faded shortly after he exited the stall, or the hospital men's shower, or the work-out room shower.

House he had brought home to die, and so Wilson had never been cleaner. His skin stung from the scrubbing. He was raw in places, but even the compulsive shampooing and loofah had brought no ease. He saw House go downhill, every day weaker while he tore his own hair out. Hundreds of dying cancer patients over his career had not gotten him used to death. He ought to be prepared for this.

He wasn't.

House tried not to yell at him. "Will you please stop making the bed."

Wilson stopped his restless, fussing hands, and made himself sit on the mattress next to where House sat, drinking a cup of chicken broth, which was all his stomach could stand. Solid food made it feel, House had admitted, as though his esophagus was pushing up against his heart. "How about a whiskey for dinner tomorrow?"

While he gently smiled and said "Guess it couldn't hurt anymore than that crap." Wilson turned each and every word from House's mouth on its ear, vainly looking for a word, a sign that meant House was feeling better. But Stop making the bed became You won't need to anymore. And How about a whiskey for dinner tomorrow? muted into There will be no tomorrow for me, so how about that drink. A stupid and cruel game. Each time he played, he only found that the end had marched on, and was now one minute closer.

House put the cup aside, making a face. "Too salty."

Prepared to leap up and get him anything he wanted - "Maybe some real stew? I could blend it. Or I could mix you up a fruit drink - "

"No." House answered. "Stop it." He lay down, adjusting the pillow behind his head, and barely tolerating it when Wilson jumped up to help him fluff. "Wilson, go watch TV. Are you on steroids or something? You're acting all jumpy and...weird. I may be dying, but I'm not dying right this second."

He wanted to say it: I don't want you to die at all. He wanted to say it, but House already knew. It would be stupid to say it again. So instead, "Are you sure there's nothing - "

"- Yes. I'm sure, Wilson." House closed his eyes with a sigh. "There's nothing that can be done for my heart. I'm dying. Differential over - go away."

Wilson did but only because he didn't want to disturb House's after dinner nap. He left the room, turning out the light, and once more found himself lost in his own life. The better part of that life sleeping in the next room, was almost gone. What would fill the place then?

Just after House began to really get sick, he had tried to lose himself in the mindless television, but that was out-of-the-question now. Sit and watch beautiful, healthy people living their dramatically full, interesting lives? Wilson had decided weeks ago that TV sucked.

But still he picked up the remote and flipped through dozens of channels. Every year more channels, higher bills, worsening content. What a sweet scam.

Wrestling was on. Maybe he should wake House up? House loved wrestling. And tennis, and baseball, football, soccer and skiing. Everything he hadn't been able to do since his leg quit. Wilson settled back to watch the sweaty, bulging males throw each other around the ring, bleed red-dyed syrup, generally act like gorilla's, and grunt almost as clearly.

Bloated, juice-fed arms the size of tree trunks rippled under the hot lights. So they made huge money? It was all fake. What did House see in thi-?

Wilson was suddenly not focused on the television at all. Beefy. Bloated. Over-sized, over-pumped. Built. Up. He reached for the phone and dialed. An answering machine took the call, and he left a message, urging for his call to be returned, and that it was very, very important. That it was a matter of life and death. Then he hung up and waited for it to ring.

Let it be life.

-

-

Wilson dialed the number.

"Hello?"

Chase's sing-song accent.

"Chase. It's Wilson. Listen," Ask before you chicken out! "Um, you remember that mobster guy? Gave House a corvette?"

"How could I forget getting punched in the face? Or forget that House got a corvette out of it. He punched me, too."

"Yeah, well, you didn't happen to get the guy's business card?"

Chase was going to think he was nuts.

"Are you nuts?? What mobster carries a business card?" Chase effected a mocking New York style. "Hey, pal, if ya' wanna someone hit, jus' give us a dingle. We aint' in the book."

"Well, I need to get a hold of the guy."

"You are nuts - why??"

"I think there's something he can do for me. For House, actually."

"Oh."

That sounded like the Nice Chase he knew - that "oh". The kind of oh that said he understood, and was upset, that House was dying, and that he also recognized that House's already grieving husband was grasping at a spindly, last straw.

"I'm sorry, I don't have the card. But I'm pretty sure he gave one to House."

"Really?" Wilson had cleaned out the drawers in House's desk a dozen times (food crumbs, old straws sticky with dried soda-pop, broken pencils, old letter's from his mom, a copy of his father's military service record that his mom insist he have to remind him at what a good and proud man John House was, to have served his country like that. Nicks and knacks House tossed in there when he could think of no better, just-as-convenient place to toss them. Lots of junk in there, but no lawyer-slash-mobster business card from a killer named Arnelo. "I don't think so." Which was bad news.

"Maybe it's in the glove-box?"

That was a good idea. He didn't think House had driven that corvette more than six or seven times, and he certainly wouldn't have cleaned out the glove-box since then, for any reason what-so-ever. "Thanks." Wilson replaced the phone on its charge cradle and walked to the building garage, where House rented out one of six stalls. The sole overhead hanging bulb was a feeble sixty watt, but it would do. In the corner stall, well over from the lesser slick, hot rod cars, sat House's yellow corvette covered with a thick, tied down tarp.

Wilson untied the corners of the passenger side so he could access the glove box. The car was dusty, but it still smelled new. Wilson could remember the few times House had taken him driving in it. Those were great days, once House got used to the shift. The corvette had a touchy tranny, and the first few times, House never got it out of third. Wilson still cringed at the memory of the House-induced grinding. How can a genius not know how to drive a stick-shift?

Wilson smiled at other memories of House's handling of his stick. House sure as hell knew how to drive one of those. The corvette looked sad, like it was missing its owner. And damn, House looked so good in it.

Wilson dug around until the found the card, still like new. Un-thumbed and clean.

By the time he got back to the apartment, doubts had piled up. But he held the phone in one shaking hand - plus he had to do it. All Arnelo could do was say no, right?

That and send a goon around to beat him to a purple, ripe pulp. Ten buttons later, sweat running down his back and a nervous tremor to his voice, some-one answered on the third ring.

"Yeah?"

Arnelo. "Mister Arnelo?"

"Yeah? Who the hell are you?"

Charming. "Um, this is James Wilson. I don't know if you remember me - "

"- I never forget anyone. Your House's gal-pal, aint ya?"

Wilson wasn't sure of Arnelo knew he and House now had a thing, or if he had just back then suspected they had. "Yes. I'm calling because, well, this is hard to explain, and I'm not looking to offend you - "

" - that's smart."

"Right. Um, look, it's been a long time, and - may I ask, is your brother doing well?"

"I never see him, remember? He's in Witness Protection."

"Never?"

"Once only. He was doing okay. Happy I guess. What the hell business is it of yours?"

"Well, sir, it isn't, but I need a favor. A small favor."

"You don't want to be owing me anything, Doc'."

I believe you. "It's more of a favor for House."

"And what's House want from me? I already gave the man a car."

"He loves that car."

The passion in Wilson's voice for House's love of his corvette must have gone through the line loud and clear, because Arnelo chuckled. "Figured he would."

"Mister Arnelo, Doctor House is dying. If I can't do this thing for him, if you can't or won't help me, he'll be dead in a matter of a week. Maybe less."

"Why does your doing whatever for him mean you need _me_ to do this whatever for him?"

"Well, I need to get a hold of something that I have no medical," and therefore no legal "reason to have." He explained what it was.

Arnelo listened patiently, and - "So you want me to get this stuff for you. Which means I'll be risking my rep'?"

Even gangsters worried about their public image, it seemed. Wilson wondered if he'd crossed over the line. "Is it really that hard to get?"

"No, but I don't see why I should have to. He's not my "domestic partner"."

"You know about...us?"

"Think I don't hear things?"

"I'll pay you anything you want."

"Huh. Got it bad for 'im, don't ya?" Even Arnelo had a heart.

Wilson kept his eyes dry, but his throat suddenly closed up. He'd carried that lump there for pretty much weeks on end, and it showed no sign of shifting. "Yes. I, I don't know what I'm going to do...if I lose him." He was confessing his hetero-slash-homo' heart to a mobster who played it straight all the way, but who's brother had come out, and so in consequence Bill Arnelo had grown a small conscience. Probably not much, but Wilson would take what he could get.

"I don't think I can help you, Doc'. I'm needing to lie low right now."

Wilson could hazard any number of reasons why. "Please. You owe him this." That was probably stepping on the line. "Time to pay up." And that was probably way over it. Wilson hated that he had to call in a favor, especially without House's knowledge, and more especially from a man that scared the lumps out of him.

"Yeah? Says who?"

"House went out on a limb for your brother, and for you. All these years he's kept shut about it."

"Smart man. Plus he got a nice corvette outta' the deal."

Wilson knew he was no good at tough talk. No one who took a single glance at this pressed, starched shirts, pocket-protectors and tie collection would ever conclude that he was a forceful personality. House was forceful. When he spoke, people really listened.

He himself was...nice. Wilson hated to admit that House was right about that. Funny, though, when the stakes were worth it, he found it quite easy to leave nice far behind. "Your brother was dying. Now he's going to live a long, healthy life because of Doctor House. And suppose you need his skills one day? If I don't get this for him, House won't be around to help you." Appealing to selfishness. Incredible how often that worked. "I'm begging you." Pleading on his knees, that sometimes worked too.

"Yeah, Willie, I suppose I just might."

Wilson cringed at the nick name no one ever called him. Whatever. Arnelo could call him Boy George, as long as he could get what House needed.

"Okay. This one favor and we're even, Doc'. No more calls, and I mean no more ever. You think about dialing me again, somebody way less nice than me's gonna' be paying you a not-so-nice visit."

Tough-guy talk, gangster style. Lawyer gangster - even worse, though that didn't mean he didn't still believe the man. Men like him carried oiled, loaded, well used guns. There was a stark, refreshing truth to the threat of your nose staring down a barrel. Not much wiggle room for argument there. "Absolutely, yes. Deal."

"_Nothing_ and _never_. Got it?" Repetition for emphasis. And a gun.

"Yeah, I got it. Thanks for this."

"Never mind. Just tell me exactly what kind you need, how much, and I'll fed-ex one of my boys over there."

"Do you mind delivering it to our apartment? The hospital tends to frown on these sorts of activities."

"Yeah, yeah, what's the address?"

Wilson told him, said goodbye and put the phone down, feeling the fear drain away. He leaned back in his home office chair and let out the worry-built, toxic breath he'd been holding since the conversation began. Even with less than half your normal oxygen intake, you could say an awful lot. And with that half capacity you could say some real-life, from-the-heart shit to a real scary character when it meant your lover's very life.

Wilson's palms were suddenly sweaty and he had to loosen his tie. He looked down his nose at the choice he'd made that morning. Why purple? And why had he put on a tie anyway? He was working from home. Pulling at its confining knot, he yanked the offending thing off and tossed it on the desk. Still so wound up, his body felt suspended above the hard seat, resting on two micro fibres of steeled ass-muscle. Wilson almost picked up the phone to call and cancel the whole thing. This was nuts.

His hand hovered over the phone. But he wanted House to have this. House needed this more than he needed his own comfort, or personal dignity - or life. Though he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

House called out from the bedroom, sounding like a bored, neglected kid in bed with a summer cold. He was thirsty.

Wiping away the lack-of-sleep redness from his eyes, Wilson went to fetch the water.

-

-

Foreman was sitting in House's old office chair, and that made Wilson's skin crawl. It didn't fit Foreman at all and he felt a sudden urge to dump Foreman out onto the carpet, but held onto his cool for the time being. If he was going to do this for House, he would need help. "I need to speak to you."

Cameron was hovering in the other room, curious always where Wilson was concerned, because where Wilson was concerned, House was never far behind.

"_Alone_." Wilson drew the blinds to block out snooping green eyes.

Foreman dropped his pen. "What's going on?"

"House is dying."

He felt bad for House, and for Wilson, but there was nothing he could do to change anything. "I know."

"I think I can save him."

Foreman looked all the way doubtful. "And how do you propose to do that? Besides getting him a new heart, that is." Everyone knew Wilson had exhausted his appeals to the Board to put House on the donor's list. A new heart just wasn't in the works.

"This could save him long enough for me to do what I've decided to do."

That sounded ominous. Foreman shook his head. "I can't be a party to anything illegal. The Board finds out - my chances to head Diagnostics are gone for sure."

"There isn't anything you have to do except make sure I do it right. And you're not the head yet. That is still House's chair. What are you doing here, anyway? Don't you head up Neurology right now?"

"I'm going to convince the Board to combine the departments, and talk Chase into working for me. It'll save them a pile of dough. In the meantime, someone needs to sit in his chair, so yeah, here I am. As House would say, I'm doing exactly what needs to be done."

Wilson hated the man's self-interested hubris, but he still needed his help. "I'm asking you as a friend. Will you please help me with this?"

"We're colleagues, Doctor Wilson, not friends. Plus I'm afraid to ask what this is, exactly. It already sounds illegal."

Wilson explained and Foreman shook his head. "So in other words - _illegal_. Something I can't be a party to." He repeated.

Wilson spread his hands. It was exasperation, impatience, and an appeal to his human nature. "I can't do this alone, Foreman. If I don't try, House is dead for sure."

Foreman had wanted to save his mother. And he had wanted to save his infection patient, and had ended up killing her via his treatment. "Patients die, Wilson. We do our best and we don't always succeed."

Wilson leaned on House's - not Foreman's - desk. "Oh give it a rest. Stop trying to be the New House. You couldn't be him on your smartest day."

It had taken him these many years to come to understand it. House was not just really smart, he was a veritable genius. House was the best doctor he had ever known. "Yeah, but someone needs to head up diagnostics and with House gone, right now I'm the most qualified. This is what I want, so forgive me but you've made your choice, Doctor Wilson, and it looks like that's House. I'm not mocking you, he's your husband and he's ill - so I get why you're doing it. But I have my career to think about, tomorrow is my review, and the Board will be making their decision at the end of the week. So, once more, I'm sorry but I can't help you."

Wilson turned his head away and his body followed. Tomorrow was Foreman's review. He needed to be at that meeting.

-

-

"Doctor Wilson, you've known Doctor Foreman for many years while he has worked under Doctor House - we're all very sorry to hear that Doctor House is not doing well, by the way. But, in regard to Doctor Foreman, as Dean do you have anything more to add to his review before we cast votes?"

Wilson checked his notes. Hastily scribbled lines written out ten minutes before the meeting started. "Ahem, yes. I agree that Doctor Foreman is an excellent neurologist, and other than a patient lost here or there, has proved himself at this hospital, over the years.

"But I have a couple of concerns." He sat up to in effect grab their attention. "I'm wondering if perhaps we're doing the right thing in that we are all but hand-picking Doctor Foreman to head up diagnostics? Don't get me wrong, he is quite qualified, that is true, but there are two other physicians who also worked with Doctor House for a number of years. Doctor Cameron for one, and Doctor Chase who has been there the longest."

O' Shay spoke. "Has either of them expressed an interest, Doctor Wilson? Neither has submitted a proposal."

"That's true but I'm wondering if that isn't simply out of respect for Doctor House? Doctor House is ill, yes, but he's still with us. I know Doctor Chase looked up to him," he held up a hand before anyone could protest, "despite that they butted heads now and again." Then underlined the atmosphere of competitiveness all physicians face at one time or another in their practices. "But who doesn't in this profession?" A little self-depreciating chuckle. "I'll be the first one to admit that I can be a pig-headed bastard from time to time. My assistant will vouch for that."

The Board joined him in momentary, polite laughter.

"And there is another matter with regard to Doctor Foreman that also concerns me." He paused, making certain his face told them that he wanted to go on, that as Dean he needed to, but that he desired their permission.

When they gave it - "Now understand," He said, "this is news I heard publicly - openly, and therefore doctor-doctor privilege doesn't apply. It is in fact, very nearly common knowledge among the staff closest to Doctor House, and it is something that has, I believe, the potential to compromise the reputation of the hospital."

He had their whole attention now. Things were proceeding swimmingly.

"To put it bluntly, Doctor Foreman has a brother who is a convict; who is currently serving a sentence for grand theft auto. I say this to in no way imply that Doctor Eric Foreman was somehow involved in this crime or is, by association, inclined to criminal acts. By no means am I suggesting this." He cleared his throat to tell them how unfortunate it was that he felt the need to voice his concerns at all. "But what about PPTH? Should this knowledge get to the press, it might make for interesting reading for the weekend addition, and we are aware that local news has been slow lately. Understand me - I'm merely asking your opinion. Before we hand-pick Foreman as Doctor House's successor, as it were, we must be aware that this kind of publicity is a risk. Can we handle that right now?

"Now, Doctor House we know had his share of unfortunate run-in's with publicity, but we are also aware how his successes over-all boosted the reputation of PPTH. We have regular contributions to the tune of thirteen million dollars annually from grateful clients whose lives Doctor House saved. foreman is untried. Is potential negative publicity - should it occur because there is no certainty it will - something about which we should be concerning ourselves?"

Rearden spoke next. "Are you suggesting we bar doctor Foreman from applying to the position?"

Wilson acted sufficiently shocked. "Of course not, Doctor Rearden. Certainly not. I'm suggesting that we think long and hard about what might occur? Can we or are we willing and ready to weather the scrutiny such negative information, should it leak, might spark? I believe it's something we should at least examine carefully before merely handing the reigns over to an untried, hand-picked successor."

Wilson took a sip of ice water. "And my second concern is much more basic: Should not Doctor House's other two fellowships be encouraged to consider the position? They have shown their proper respect for their former mentor by declining to apply, but for all we know they may be very interested. I think now is a good time for them to put aside their reluctance and, if they so desire, have the same opportunity to apply for Diagnostics along with their colleague, Doctor Foreman.

"We all thought Doctor Foreman was the logical choice because he was the one who jumped at the opportunity. And he is still an excellent candidate." Wilson tried to make that sound, however, as though Foreman's immediate application was slightly callous, considering that his employer was not yet dead.

He himself thought so. Wilson closed with - "It's something I thought we should at least discuss."

Wilson waited as the Board members individually considered his very reasonable worries.

DuMarche', in his strong French accent, decided to speak for the group. "I think we all agree that Doctor Wilson's concerns are not wholly off-base. Perhaps we ought to delay our decision until we've had the time to speak to Doctor's Cameron and Chase - see if they might wish to apply. Perhaps they have been holding back out of respect for Doctor House. The trait of respect for one's instructor is a trait that I, for one, hold in high regard. And though I can't speak for the rest of you when it comes to Doctor's Chase and Cameron, I myself have had dealings with Doctor Cameron, and in my observation she is a thoroughly dedicated physician who cares very much for her patients. That indicates to me that she would work tirelessly, as she already has done so in this hospital, to care for them, and to serve this institution. As well, if Doctor Foreman is serious in his application, then a few weeks delay certainly shouldn't matter."

After a few more similar comments and a showing of hands, the vote fell to a delay of two weeks.

Wilson did not have to wait long for Foreman's reaction.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" Foreman said, bursting into his office, ignoring the protests of Wilson's assistant.

Wilson barely acknowledged his presence. "I'll bet you say that to all the Dean's."

Foreman shoved a letter under his nose which Wilson recognized as the Board's missive explaining their decision for a delay, including their carefully edited reasons behind it.

Foreman demanded "What the hell are you trying to do?"

"As House would say, I'm doing exactly what needs to be done."

The barb went home. But everyone is entitled to defend their own position. "You're deliberately trying to sabotage my position as head of Diagnostics."

"A position, I'd like to remind you, that you don't actually _hold_ yet." Wilson kept his eyes on the paper-work in front of him, which he didn't care a whip for. He had been very curious to see if his skills at manipulation had improved over the years under House's consistent tutelage. "And all I did was encourage the Board to consider all options." Looks like they had.

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing that everyone didn't already know."

"You invoked my brother's bad name, didn't you? You bastard. What my brother does is no reflection on me."

"You're right. And the only name I invoked, by the way, was _yours_. When you found out House was sick again, did you open the champagne that very minute or wait twenty minutes out of respect for the dying?"

Zing! The second barb. Interesting how good it felt to throw it. House had a point. Sometimes it felt good _not_ to turn the other cheek.

Foreman took a deep, angry breath. "You _can't_ do this."

"Sure I can. I'm the Dean."

"We both know Chase isn't interested in running Diagnostics. You're doing this to force me to help you with your little illegal maneuver."

"Only the implementation is illegal. The reason behind it is as pure as the driven snow."

"Morally? Just barely." Foreman said. "But how you're going about it isn't. You know a delay of two weeks will be enough time for the word to get out that House isn't going to be coming back, and Diagnostics is short its captain. There'll be more applications pouring in than just mine. There could be dozens, now, from all over."

"That's the way things go sometimes. It sucks, but..."

"- You can manipulate this all you want - I'm still not helping you." Foreman suddenly gave him a once over. "I could tell the Board what you're doing. You could lose your position as Dean."

"_What_ am I doing? Encouraging the Board to consider all angles? Giving other doctors time to think it over? How's that evil?"

"Don't tell me that you don't care about your job. Or how hard you've worked. How _long _you've worked."

"Are you deaf? House is what I care about. That's all. Nothing more."

Foreman stared for a few seconds, gauging whether Wilson was speaking truth or just sucking around for sympathy. Deciding he was being sincere about being a House-loving manipulator - "Fine, but I'm not going to help you."

"Then why are you still standing here?"

With a scrap of hope, Foreman stared at him for any sign of give, but Wilson's face was set in marble. Foreman felt as though he was seeing the real Wilson for the first time. "You would really do this? Screw my chances?"

"You rub my back, I recommend yours."

"Wow." Foreman turned in a circle, like he couldn't believe the world was spinning as usual while all this was coming down on him. Back to his boss - "You shouldn't have married House, man."

Wilson became very still. "Don't go there." Wilson almost shouted _What the hell do you know about loyalty or sacrifice?_ Foreman, a peacock-proud man, but one who had not visited his brother since the day of his incarceration.

Foreman ignored the warning and shook his head. "'Cause it's obvious you've spent way too much time around him."

"Shut your mouth!" This time he raised his voice while his insides twisted around and squeezed at the thought of what he had with House, and what he was going to lose if he couldn't pull this off. By any scale, it was too great. If heart-ache could be measured in feet, his has just sunk to China. "It doesn't matter that House isn't perfect. He's still worth it. All of it."

Wilson settled himself down, leaning back in his chair. When he next spoke, it was without urgency. Things were so simple now. House was probably going to die, and he probably wasn't going to survive it. He was a scattered, forsaken man, his whole being feeling as though it was on the verge of dissipating. Bleak drifts in a black winter night.

"This is what I want." Wilson said. "This is all I want." If Foreman wasn't going to help him, then it didn't matter if they remained on friendly terms or not. Fuck him. "If I have to do it alone, I will."

Wilson suddenly couldn't stand the sight of the man whom House had spent years teaching, nurturing, even protecting and, though Foreman had no idea, secretly praising to selected others. House himself knew Foreman was the next best choice to head Diagnostics, and had told Wilson so more than once. House had even spoken to Cuddy about it, back when she was still in command and kicking up her heels. The only person House had never said it to was Foreman.

House didn't like people all that much and never had, but he sure as hell read them right. Because House understood that Foreman was too inexperienced to be harboring the globe-sized ego that he did. Because ego, when it was unsupported by the skill of many years (or inherent, raging genius), had the potential to break a career instead of helping make it.

Even killing a patient due to his own arrogance had not sufficiently taught Foreman that lesson.

Wilson was tired of the whole cruel eighty-year scene. House was right. You get what you get and sometimes it sucked. "Get out, Foreman. Go sit in the chair some more."

-

-

A soft rattle at the door, and Wilson opened up, surprised at his visitor. "Foreman?"

The man stepped into the room. "I got an interesting call from Chase this afternoon." He said. No mistaking his continued disapproval of the whole thing. "You're still going ahead with it."

Wilson closed the door and turned away from the unpleasant fellowship who was showing every intent of staying for a bit, making himself at home on the couch. "Of course I am?" Wilson said, ensuring there was no mistaking his disapproval of Foreman's disapproval.

"You're being an ass, and lately, that's nothing new." Foreman removed his coat, folding it over a straight-backed chair by the door. "I hope you know that you're risking his life trying to save his life." Foreman lectured. "And if it works at all, it's nothing more than a stop-gap."

Wilson was already thinking about kicking him out. "Yeah, thanks. I went to medical school, too."

"You must have skipped the ethics course."

If Foreman didn't soon come up with something worth his time, he would kick him out, and take great pleasure in it. He had a pair of heavy boots around here somewhere. Those would do a sweet job of it. Wilson sat back down on the couch. Beside a small, paper-bag wrapped package, sat House's small metal case in which Wilson knew House stored a vile of morphine and several syringes. "I threatened you because House needs this treatment to live. So if you still don't give a damn and haven't come here to help - get out."

Foreman ignored Wilson churlishness. That sort of emotional state kind of went with the territory when your lover was dying and you knew you were helpless to prevent it. "Despite your attempt to ruin my chances to head Diagnostics, I am here to help. Just thought I'd remind you how little chance this has of working, and I'm assuming of course that this is only the first of several moral or ethical laws you intend to break over the next week or so." He sat beside his former boss's life-long friend and husband of under two years.

Wilson was quiet for a few seconds. "Now you're ready to help?" He asked, still chocked full of doubt. "Careful. I might start thinking you actually like House."

Foreman smirked, about as close as he ever got to a smile. "Right now, I like him a lot more than I like you." Foreman didn't laugh at his own joke. No surprise to Wilson. The serious younger physician did had a sense of humor, but it only reacted to something funny enough to turn his upside-down expression into an ivory-grin, and usually that person was House. Or when he and the fellowships were talking about House. Foreman was more like his teacher than he would ever admit. "But let's not go nuts." Foreman added.

Wilson, feeling a bit of a chump, fetched Foreman and himself a beer, not bothering with a glass - even if Foreman had asked.

Foreman cracked the tab and took a small swig. Without warning, the smallest confession spilled from his mouth. "You're right. I should have waited to apply." He sighed, as though being a decent guy was fatiguing. The compadre moment was over. "What is it you need me to do anyway?"

"I have to do the actual treatment," Wilson explained, knowing Foreman would understand his reasons, especially - "or House is going to hunt you down and ruin the rest of your life."

"He's dying."

"You think dying would stop him? Trust me, I've seen him do worse from his cell phone while taking a bath." Foreman did chuckle at that. Both men knew House well enough to know that Wilson was only partly kidding around. "I just need you to be there to help make sure I don't screw it up."

Foreman considered the steps they would need to put in place to make this work. "This is a crap shoot, you know. It's dangerous - it isn't even realistic."

"Still doing it."

"He could be dead sooner than later."

"I have to try. This is _House_."

"We're going to need an operating room, and a really good anesthesiologist, or we'll lose him right on the table."

"I'm the Dean, so the operating room is a shoo-in. As for gas, Chase has done that before."

"But it's not really his speciality." Foreman said. "On the other hand, he's all we got."

"Think you can talk him into helping out?"

"Chase looks up to House - he'll help."

"Okay. Now, I know why I'm doing this, and probably why Chase will do it. Why are you doing it?"

Foreman paused as though the reasons had not yet crossed his mind. "Maybe I owe him. Other than that, I have no idea." But, he smiled again just a little. It was a marked day, it seemed. "Getting in good with the Dean never hurts."

Wilson knew there was one more part of the deal to be brokered, and Foreman didn't disappoint. "If this works, will you fairly recommend me, along with Chase or whoever, to the Board as a candidate for the Head of Diagnostics?"

"If you do this for me..." Wilson would keep his word. Contingent upon him being able to pull this off (and the next part of his plan, an even more ethically risky move). "..then yes." If House still died, Wilson didn't give a goddamn who headed Diagnostics.

But if House lived....

-

-

TBC asap (This isn't as long as I wanted it to be, but there it is)


	3. Chapter 3

Walking in L.

Part III

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: Continuation of where One Step Closer Away leaves off. This story is H/W. Doctor James Wilson wants to save House - who is slowly dying - and he'll go to any length. Violence, adult situations, language. This is NOT a death-fic'.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a collective request for a sequel from Richie117 and the members of the marvelous Hilson Forum at http:// www. housemd. fora. pl /hilson, 22/ (No spaces of course) - I blame YOU! Thank you stimulating my creative juices against my will, Richie and Forum members - I'll get you for this! (Tee-hee). I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

Just a reminder - this story acknowledges Season 3 but there-after does not follow cannon.

Here is the link to One Step Closer Away. Seriously, you oughta' read that first.  
http:// www. fan / s / 4600963/ 1/ One_Step_Closer_Away (No spaces of course)

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"I can't believe you're even thinking of doing this to him?"

Wilson had no idea how Cameron had gotten hold of the news, but now that she had it, he wished he had an idea about how to make her go away. "What? Saving his life?"

"I mean taking his power away. You know House is ready to die, he as much told you so."

Wilson spun on the insufferable female. "As much. Which also means not exactly told me so. His words to me were he was expecting to die. House the optimist." Wilson attempted to leave her behind by using his longer legs to their full power, but Cameron was nothing if not determined. "You know what happened when Stacy did the same thing?" She had to half-jog to keep up to him.

"How the hell do you know what happened? You weren't there." Neither had he been, he had to remind himself.

"House told us, he told a whole room full of people."

"House explained the medical side of it." He corrected her. "You, with your ever present need to know everything about your boss's personal life, wrung the rest of it out of him at a hospital fund raiser, when he was too drunk to contain his misery." Wilson thrust a hand at the nosy fellowship. "When it was his leg, House was gambling that he wouldn't die - this is completely different. His heart is failing - he's already dying."

"This is wrong and you know it." Cameron insisted. "You do this - force treatment on him, you're no different that Stacy."

Naturally the thought had occurred to him; that House might be furious, even if the treatment prolongs his life, because the decision was being taken out of his hands. "He'll forgive me." Wilson said, only half believing it himself. "He'll be alive."

But once he was out of sight of Cameron's watchful eyes, his self assurance vanished. Supposing it doesn't make a difference to House? Trust is trust, and once it's broken.

No! The risk verses House dying needlessly was worth it. No matter what.

-

"So why are you doing this, exactly?" Foreman asked. "You'll be buying him maybe six months - and that's only if you're lucky."

House's office was seeing more use by the fellowships, and by himself, than it had during all the years House occupied the chair. House would be not pleased that his one special place in the world had so quickly been supplanted by others, but no one told him. After the jerk he had often been to his employees, everyone still tried to protect him from hurt - most especially now. Somehow in their individual ways, they each had grown to love the man. It was one of life's mysteries.

Wilson scanned through his cell phone contact list, trying to find the number he had been provided by his mob contact. House's old mob contact. The mob man with a taste for rocket cars. And big guns. He wondered if the contact liked guns. "That's long enough."

Foreman was beginning to think he understood where Wilson was going. "This is to keep him alive long enough to swing a donor heart, isn't it? A black market heart." Foreman said, his voice rising - disbelieving the level of his colleagues foolishness. "Are you insane?"

"Say it louder, Foreman, I'm sure there are a few people passing in the hallway who didn't hear you just now." Wilson ignored the muttered warnings that followed. Foreman approached everything with a cautionary outlook, questioning the pro's and con's of every decision. Even love.

Risking his career to save a woman's life, Foreman knew how to do, and had done. Risking himself to get close to another human being, to come to love that human being more than yourself? More than anything? Foreman had never done and Wilson doubt he ever would.

Even House knew how to do that. Even House of the angry eyes and scowl, understood exactly what love was. He'd proved it to Wilson day and night since they'd gotten together nearly three years ago. That was too fucking much to say goodbye to without at least trying to save.

So this was too important to worry about the con's. Fuck the con's, and let House guess all he needed to. Let Foreman yap, and let Cameron prance around in her personal kingdom of self righteousness. Whatever. House was worth the risk. He was worth a career.

"Bad enough you're making me help you do what we're about to do, but this...this could ruin you. Do you honestly think House is going to let you throw away your career?"

Wilson found the number. "He will if he doesn't know about it. And what do you care whether I do or not?" Foreman wanted the Dean-ship. "I'll be gone. Perfect opportunity for you."

Foreman stood, grabbed the sides of his head and paced around the room in circles. "Well, somebody has to do some straight thinking aorund here." He dropped his hands. "He'll find out, Wilson. Since when does a bad heart make the man stupid? You're a terrible liar, and House can read you like a cheap novel."

Maybe the neurologist did care. A little. Wilson dialed the number anyway. Looked at Foreman. "You going to tell him?"

Foreman shook his head. "After this procedure, I'm done with this. Understand me? I'm not throwing away my whole future on a gamble. There's a chance you won't even find a suitable organ."

"If I don't try, there's no chance at all." Someone answered the phone. A sharp voice. Impatient. "Yeah?"

Wilson turned his upper body away and spoke to the stranger. Foreman left House's office on angry feet. Probably going to go off and cry his troubles to McGallon or someone. If that uppity sob sabotages this for House, I'll -

"What do you want?"

Wilson heard the anger in the strangers voice now. "Sorry, um, I was distracted. Look, you don't know me - "

"- If you've called me, that means you're looking for a volunteered organ, so get on with it. What and when?"

Volunteered. Right. "Um, a heart as soon as possible."

"Everyone wants one asap. Talk reality to me, and we might do business."

"S-say within the next six months?" House could last until then if all goes well with his interim treatment. His illegal, ethically sour treatment.

"See? That's reality. Six months is do-able. Fifty-five thousand dollars up front, and I don't deliver. The product by the way is not under warranter. If for some reason you fuck it up, no money back either."

"Fine." What choice did he have? "Where and when?"

"Give me your number." Once he did so, the fellow's last words were - "I'll call you."

Wilson hung up his cellular and leaned back in House's now rarely used chair (other than Foreman's self-righteous ass every so often leaving its fresh dents in it).

Cameron entered the room, and threw a stack of files down in front of him. "Don't you ever use your own office anymore?" She was snippy, and had been since the news of House's failing heart, and subsequent confinement at home. Everyone who liked House was snippy. Everyone who hated him was feeling guilty about being happy he was gone. What fuck ups people were, including himself.

"I like being in here." He told her starkly. It was true. Why hide that he loved House very deeply and he was sick about losing him so soon. "When I have to be here, I miss him."

Cameron, as sanctimonious as she had often been with her difficult boss, nodded, her eyes soft for him and his [ending loss. She had loved House once, too. Girly love, immature, unrequited, hopeless, but love none-the-less. "So do I."

Cameron left him alone with his thoughts, and he spent a moment or two imagining House at home in his bed arguing with the day nurse, telling her dirty jokes in between bitching about her weak tea and lousy noodle soup. God he would give anything to be there right now. He looked at his watch. Only two-thirty in the afternoon.

Seven patients were scheduled to begin arriving in under fifteen minutes, which is about the last thing he felt like doing this or any day in the next month. Still, he couldn't beg off seeing patients. They were his last and most personal cases; people he had either known for years or who had personally requested their favorite oncologist Dean of Medicine to assist them with their particular battle with cancer - whatever type it was. He needed to keep the name of the hospital reputable, and that meant keeping his name reputable and in the forefronts of their minds.

His name being kept clean was going to be a challenge in the coming weeks. Foreman was right of course. What he was doing was nuts and would most likely ruin him. But even more nuts was watching House die while everyone, including himself, stood around making all the proper noises of sympathy while doing absolutely nothing.

Watching House die a slow death would be far worse than watching his career die a slow one. So he would lose his job. He'd sacrificed it before on the altar of House's insanity. This time he would do it for a purer purpose - one he felt nothing but good about. So he'd lose his reputation and probably his medical license, too.

Wilson swiveled in House's chair, unwilling to move from it though he knew at least one of his patients was probably already waiting for him in his office. His assistant would have already sat him or her down and offered them a coffee and an apology for her boss's tardiness.

Let them wait. He was thinking about House, healthy with color in his face, laughing and drinking non-alcoholic beer and them watching a movie together, and then pursuing a much better past-time between the sheets, and for a sweet moment all his troubles vanished into the invisible. House had become his life. He loved this man. Losing him so soon, just barely after finally having him all to himself, was too much to bear even in his imagination. Every time the thought crossed his mind, he chest grew tight and he had to fight to breath. All good things come to those who wait.

Or to those who risk every last thing.

So, for the next while anyway, keeping the budget topped up meant still catering to a few high spenders. They needed him, and he needed them, and he still loved his work, even if it did bite into his personal time with House.

Besides, he was going to need the money.

-

Wilson walked straight to the bedroom, not even shedding his overcoat or suit jacket. He needed to see him, to re-enforce himself; to fortify his determination.

House was sitting up in bed reading a medical journal. He glanced up at Wilson, flashing his usual greeting - startling blue eyes widening slightly, and a brief parting of the lips, as though seeing Wilson return home every night was each time a surprise. A pleasant surprise, but still a surprise. How often had people walked away from House during his life, Wilson wondered, when he had been at his lowest? Three that he knew of: House's father, Stacy, and himself.

He wasn't about to ever make that mistake again. "Hi." He said and bent over for a quick kiss on the lips.

"Hey." House said, raising his magazine a little so Wilson would refer to it. "This physician is an idiot."

House words. Brash. Scathingly critical. And almost always right on the money. The man was a fucking wizard. "What's the article?"

"This guy just published an article suggesting that the effectiveness of vaccines is a secondary result of the patient's individual mental and emotional state. Apparently if I was nicer to my patients, more of them would be alive right now."

"You were a jerk, and almost all are alive."

House thrust the magazine aside. "See? He's wrong."

Wilson dropped his briefcase on the floor, and sat on the bed. Tonight was phase one. Chase and Foreman would be arriving within the hour. House needed to be asleep by then. "When did the nurse leave?"

"Usual time."

"How many ways did you insult her today?" Wilson compensated her very well financially for putting up with the worst patient on the planet.

"Five or six." House was unconcerned. "She's three hundred pounds, wears horn-rimmed glasses and can't remember what I tell her to do no matter how many times I tell her to do it. And she's sixty if she's a hundred, so she ought to be used to being insulted at her age." House frowned up at his lover. "Why didn't you hire Nelly, the red headed cute one?"

"Because you'd be flirting with her all day, saying inappropriate things. I'd get jealous."

"Guess we can't be having that."

"Tea? Juice?"

"Not thirsty."

Shit. "Hungry? I whipped up some barley beef soup over the weekend." House's favorite of the soups he was allowed to have.

"Nah."

Shit shit. Wilson knew how to get around that, however, and heated himself up a bowl full. He wasn't hungry either but he knew if he ate it in front of House, House would immediately want his own bowl.

Wilson put his plan into action.

-

Foreman was the first to arrive. "We ready?"

Wilson nodded and lead them into the bedroom. "Set up in here." House was asleep. Wilson had put just the right amount of Ativan in his soup, and had heavily peppered the soup to hide the taste. Fortunately, House liked pepper on his food.

chase arrived next and they helped him tape up the sterile plastic and the fan to create negative air pressure, set up the scope camera , and generally making the room as sterile as possible. As a home-made operating theater it wasn't half bad.

Wilson leaned over House as he was lifted onto the wheeled operating cot. A back board was slipped beneath him, and he was strapped in to keep him immobile. Chase administered the proper anesthetic, compensating for the amount of Ativan already in his system, and House was out.

Wilson leaned over House and whispered something in his ear. Chase thought he heard I'm sorry, baby, but he couldn't be sure.

Foreman said "Let's get this done."

-

"Wilson..."

Wilson heard House's weak call from the bedroom and hurried in. "Hey." He sat down beside him, taking a single em-boldening breath of air.

House was under the influence of the remaining anesthetic in his blood stream, but still woozy enough that he had no idea of it. "Somethings wrong, I can't sit up."

Wilson took his friend's right hand in his own. Fingers limp but flowing with warm blood. There was color on House's fair skin, a faint flush to his cheeks. Too soon to be attributed to the treatment which they had just performed on his frail heart, but nice to see. "There's nothing wrong, House. You're okay. Just sleepy."

House, eyes as sharp as a cat despite the drug, peered through Wilson's lie just as easy as you please, his physician's mind analyzing his own symptoms and coming up with the diagnosis in a cheap second. "I'm not sleepy, I've been drugged."

That slight edge to his voice was, Wilson knew, the first warning of the storm that was coming his way.

"You spiked my soup." House struggled to sit up, but his muscles refused to fully obey. "Why the hell did you drug me?"

Quickly explain. Drill it into the man's skull before his knee-jerk reaction center of his stubborn brain has the opportunity to take off at a full, raging gallop. "We treated you. Foreman, Chase and me. We operated; gave you steroids designed to strengthen your heart muscle. It'll buy you months of life. I knew you'd refuse if I asked."

House tried to sit up again, but he couldn't make it beyond lifting his head off the mattress. Wilson felt a little guilty for not offering to help him. A prone House was an easier to handle House. the man would be up and throwing his arms around soon enough. "So you decided to treat me without my permission, without my knowledge - without my consent." His dry vocal chords rubbed together like sand paper. House coughed. Struggled. Sat up. This time making it almost all the way.

His doctor's propriety behooved Wilson to place a fluffy pillow behind House's head. Then he hung his head a little, waiting for the verbal blows.

None came. "You mind telling me why you wouldn't even talk to me about it? How do you know I wouldn't have agreed? I probably would have. Think I like the idea of dying? Think I want to?"

"You would have said no."

House shook his head. "Even if this works, and it doesn't in every case, you know, it'll only buy me a few months."

Wilson waited. He knew House would leap to the next logical conclusion without him having to say a single word.

House stopped fiddling with the edge of his blanket, and looked sharply at Wilson.

"Oh, jesus, don't tell me you're thinking of doing the idiot thing I know you're thinking of doing."

Right on cue. "Then I guess I don't have to say anything."

House thrust the blanket away from him. He was fully awake now. "You're not doing it."

"It's already decided, House. I'm going."

House's voice contained threat and warning. "No, you're fucking not. I refuse to consent. I do not give you my medical okay. I'll have what'iz name? - Bernard, draw up a new letter of proxy and toss you out on your ear. You're not doing this."

"This will save your life."

"And wreck yours, you idiot. All for a chance. There are no guarantee's. Even if this works," He gestured with one thumb at his own chest, "that might not."

"I don't care." Wilson said, amazed at calm he felt about it, how unstoppable his intent, how single his focus. Was this how it had been with House and his patient's all those years? When House knew he was right, and the patient disagreed and argued back, and so House would do what he knew he had to, to save their life?

What a wing-soaring high. Wilson was suddenly transformed into a creature of the air, flying high above everyone else and seeing the world as it was and should be - clear as a mountain spring. He was a fucking eagle with his razor eyes dead-set on the goal, miles and miles away, while the rest slept on in ignorance. "I can't lose you. I don't care what you think of me, I don't care if you end up hating me for it. I can't lose you - I won't."

House stared at the blanket, its woven wool edge fraying after years of use. Probably one of Wilson's grandmother's crafted works. "If you so much as book a taxi to the airport, you will lose me. I promise you that."

Wilson had figured back when he'd made the decision that it was a risk. That they might be on the line. That House might try to use their relationship as a bribe or a lever to get Wilson to do, or not do, what he wanted. That House might threaten to walk out, or wheel out.

Still the scales were worth tipping. After it was all said and done, House would find himself alive and kicking, gaining his strength back, walking again, maybe even riding again, and he would eventually come around. He'd grudgingly admit that it had been the right thing to do, a worthy risk, and things would go back to normal. House would be in his bed again, his nose in his life, his face in his fridge, his body underneath him, and his perfect mouth everywhere else.

Wilson felt warmth spread through him at the thought of House as he used to be, and knew his decision was correct, no matter how House felt about it. No matter what he might otherwise lose. "I love you, House, so do what you feel you need to, but I'm going." -

TBC asap.

Sorry this was shorter than usual, but I am on vacation and using someone else's computer, so I can't hog it like I would at home.


	4. Chapter 4

Walking in L.

Part IV

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: Continuation of where One Step Closer Away leaves off. This story is H/W. Doctor James Wilson wants to save House - who is slowly dying - and he'll go to any length. Violence, adult situations, language. This is NOT a death-fic'.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a collective request for a sequel from Richie117 and the members of the marvelous Hilson Forum at http:/ www. housemd. fora. pl /hilson, 22/ (No spaces of course) - I blame YOU! Thank you stimulating my creative juices against my will, Richie and Forum members - I'll get you for this! (Tee-hee). I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

Just a reminder - this story acknowledges Season 3 but there-after does not follow cannon.

Here is the link to One Step Closer Away. Seriously, you oughta' read that first.

http:/ www. fan / s / 4600963/ 1/ One_Step_Closer_Away (No spaces of course)

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As to the future of Diagnostics, the Board remained undecided. Wilson encouraged them take patience in such an important decision where-in the reputation of Plainsboro, and the sensibilities of present and future contributors, were at stake.

Foreman paid a visit to the Dean's office.

"Doctor Wilson. I'd like to talk to you about this."

Wilson never lifted his eyes from his paper work. "There's nothing to say."

Foreman shook his head. "House is right. When it comes to denial, you are the poster boy. Just for the record, I think what you're doing to House is shitty. Almost as bad as what you tried to do to me."

But Foreman could see his words weren't getting through to his stubborn colleague. Wilson just kept his head down and writing, drawing the pen across the suffering paper like a scalpel across flesh over and over. Work as therapy for guilt, worry, sorrow - whatever. A James Wilson special.

"As much as I hate to admit it," Foreman tried again - if accusation wouldn't move the oncologist, maybe persuasion would, "for some reason I can't fathom, you and House work. He loves you, and you're good for him. And, for some other reason I can't fathom, you love _him_. If you do this, man, you'll be destroying the only decent, trusting relationship you've ever had. And the _only_ one he'll ever have."

"But House will live."

"He'll never forgive you." Foreman pressed.

"But he'll live."

Foreman watched Wilson write, scribbling like his life depended on it. Or like House's life did. He was probably right, though. If Wilson didn't do this incredibly stupid, career-ruining thing, House was going to die. "Everybody dies, Wilson." An old stand-by from the master.

For a moment Wilson neither lifted his head nor responded, then he gently placed his pen on the paper and directed his attention to the office window to his left, leaving only a small portion of his mind on Foreman and his arguments made in ignorance. The last relationship that he had any knowledge of regarding Foreman and a romantic affiliation had petered out months ago. Drifted off, dried up, got lost in the mundanity that often comes to those caught up in the passion that fires most relationships at the start.

That was the part that Foreman, that anybody, didn't understand about him and House. The passion had been there from day one, when their relationship hadn't been at all sexual, and had never petered out. It was as fired and true as it had been that first few days, when they had spent hours talking, joking, drinking - House had made him feel like he was the only person in the universe. Suddenly he, straight as an arrow, stand-up guy, James Wilson, became interesting and cool. House hadn't just liked him, he'd really liked him.

To this day Wilson wasn't all that certain he understood why. He could tell a good joke now and then and hold his own in most ordinary conversations, but when he was around House, he was _the_ man. Somehow-or-other, intellectually, emotionally, they supported and fed off each other. It was interdependent. Symbiotic. Orgasmic.

They were a marvelous thing, he and House. Two autonomous, sole beings where life apart from the other felt incomplete and stale. Being apart too long _hurt_ somehow. Something that filled each space in the other just drained away, emptied out. House was to his life as jazz was to a saxophone.

"House _is_ my life." Foreman wouldn't get it. Did he, Wilson, feel whole without his friend or lover? Wilson had come into his forties understanding that no, no he didn't. Not by a friggen' long shot.

Foreman watched Wilson watch the window, waiting for an answer. He had an idea; maybe the only one that might preserve Wilson's career ass and House's physical one - plus his own reputation and future at Plainsboro. Contrary to popular opinion, although he did want the Head of Diagnostics position, he _didn't_ want it at the expense of House's life or his own chances to learn even more from the great doctor before House actually, finally retired.

"Wilson - "

Wilson stood and forced his sleeves into his overcoat. "This conversation is over. I'm going home."

"Fine. Be an idiot." Foreman left ahead of his bull-headed boss, not bothering to hold the door, and turning one way while Wilson went the other way toward the main exit.

There weren't two Houses in the world, and there never would again be a Gregory House, Magician-Doc'. Keeping House around and kicking was good for all of them. Foreman sighed. Now he knew how House felt when it came to being forced to save James Wilson from his himself. "I must be nuts." He called House's private cellular.

When Wilson walked in the bedroom, House was on the phone. "Maybe you're right. Yup." House stared right at Wilson. "Deal. You keep the horse in the barn and I'll lasso the donkey." He hung up.

Wilson frowned at the bizarre terminology. "Who was that?"

"Uh - Chase."

"You sound unsure. Is he taking up animal sports, or is there something legitimately up?"

"Of course I'm sure. Boring patient, that's what's up." House gave Wilson a sideways look. "You here to talk my head off with your trip to China oh-so-idiotic plan?"

"What's idiotic about it, if it'll save your life?"

"Nothing. But, on the other hand, I already said no. I don't want the transplant."

Wilson had his arguments ready, because House would certainly have his. He would go, despite what House said, but he'd hoped to garner House's blessing before he left. "You're physically and emotionally compromised, so as your medical proxy I've decided that your decision is a stupid one." Wilson said. What House wanted made no difference. Not this time. Wilson knew he was being selfish, but he also knew he was right. "You wanted me to think more like you. Well, here I am - drink up. I'm saving your ass, by the way, because you're too stubborn to. I think you ought to be flattered."

"I'm not. This has nothing to do with me, you moron. You're putting your career on the line."

"For you."

"Bullshit."

"No bullshit. You're just scrambling for absolute control over your fate and in the process defying your own philosophy that there are no absolutes. _"You don't get what you deserve, you just get what you get." - _remember? That's House original. To finish the quote, "the rest is up to you"."

"Then I refuse."

"So you're not just choosing to be an idiot, your choosing over-all idiocy. That's the worst kind of idiot."

House shrugged. "Death can't be so bad. According to myth, I get seventy Virginians when I get to heaven, remember?"

"Seventy _virgins_."

"Whatever. As long as they show up." House lay his head back on the pillow. He was tired of this. Of course he wanted to live. He just didn't want to live if it meant Wilson would be ruined. Sometimes he hated being the bad guy. Sometimes why couldn't fate defy _his_ philosophy for once and let everything work out for the best for everyone? "I'm choosing your future over mine."

Wilson felt that intimate warmth that he had often felt over the years being with House. Being with him in their special, new way. A way that was still being explored and savored. Still fresh. Still a deep, abiding, intense love neither of them could really understand or explain. Wilson had begun to love House from the first day they'd met. The first hour. He knew now, as perhaps he had not completely recognized then, that what he had found in this person was special, was very, very rare and in consequence he doubted that any other couple had _ever_ had what they had. Together, they were truly unique. "I know." Wilson took his friend's hand and kissed it. "Ditto."

House sighed, and with that sigh Wilson knew House was at least open to listening to his friend's precarious plan and whatever future it deemed to forge. "What sort of precautions have you taken at least?" House asked. "If we're going to do this, I'd like to know you're not going to send an announcement about it to the Society Page."

Wilson smiled. Soft. Indulgent. "I'm going to ask Chase to come with me."

"Liar."

"Am not."

"Chase has a review next week."

"No he doesn't."

"Okay. So if I pick up the phone, he'll confirm it?"

"Go ahead."

"Take Chase - _that's_ your plan? Pathetic. How very _you_." House added quickly, darkly. "Not Chase."

"Wha - Why not?"

"Not Chase - and not Cameron. their both just starting their careers. We're not going to ruin them. And it looks like I'll have to plan your plan if there's any hope of it working."

Surprising. In a pleasingly unsurprising way, surprising. "Holy crap. You...care about them, don't you? You're actually displaying _concern_ about what happens to another human being. Besides me, I mean."

House glowered at him. "Shut up. I _don't_ care. Chase is an...investment. and Cameron..."

"And Cameron...?"

"And Cameron has the hots for me. She'd do anything for me, no matter how stupid."

"Right." Wilson said.

Anybody else looking on would be squinting their eyes at the conversation, but in Wilson's eyes, it was a honest and lovely moment from House, who denied he possessed any human feelings what-so-ever.

Wilson knew better. Despite their arguments over the years, verbal and physical, Chase still looked up to House and House still cared about him, his out-and-out denial not-with-standing. Wilson had a sneaky suspicion that Chase at heart saw House as a kind of pseudo-father-figure, one he had never had, and House saw in Chase the man who had come under his wing, young and inexperienced, and flourished. The boy who was now a man and who might be the one who would follow in his footsteps.

Foreman of course, was trying to follow in House's footsteps, but would be the last man standing to admit it publicly. An attitude Wilson suspected (and House would refute with all vigor), hurt House a little at his heart. And Cameron well, Cameron had a soft, romantic spot for House still buried way down, deep inside her. One that would never again rear its head now that he and House were legally married and well on their way to remaining so.

House's fellowships were a curious group. House had hired them because, to him, each was interesting in their own way and, Wilson was convinced, despite all the House-sprung tribulations each had had to endure, they had _stayed_ because House was fascinating as hell. In their own way, each saw House as unique. And the stayed because they cared about him.

Whether or not you wanted him to, House got under your skin. House possessed a fine edged, somewhat unhealthy and disarming charm, a tremendous ego, and a sad fragility of spirit that caught people unawares. Suddenly, there he was in your life, burrowing in. Crawling around inside your heart like a virus, and impervious to treatment. Once he was there, a House purge was impossible, and you loved and hated him for it.

House violently threw back the sheets. "Help me up." When he was seated on the edge of the bed. "Take Foreman with you."

Wilson stared for a few seconds. "Foreman has two departments to run."

With a sardonic shake of his head, "This plan is looking just better and better."

"I'll figure it out."

"It's Cameron, isn't it? Figures. She's always up for adventure."

"She has worked for _you_ all these years." Attempting to rub the worry from his face - "Yes, it's Cameron, okay? Cameron's going with me - happy? Now will you get back in bed?"

To his amazement, House complied and folded his long legs beneath the blankets once more. "Why were you trying to hide it from me?"

Wilson tucked covers in around House's feet. He didn't want any cold air getting at them, as House's circulation was still sub-par. "Oh, I don't know. I figured you might want to do your usual House thing and wreck it somehow."

Clipped - "Nice." House lay his head down on the pillows. "I'm not always a jerk, you know."

"Sorry. I was taking your reputation and over-all history into account."

"This operation will have to be done out-of-country you realize? You're going to have to take me somewhere far away eventually. And who are you leaving in charge of Plainsboro, by the way?"

"I'm the Dean, that's my business."

"_Who?_"

"I don't know yet. Someone I trust. Someone willing to do the job without asking too many questions like _why am I going to China?_"

"I'll do it."

Both men turned to see Foreman standing at the bedroom door. "Sorry. No one answered the bell, so I let myself in." He entered the room, chalking up seeing the two men talking intimately as standard fare. When House and Wilson had stopped hiding their blossoming physical relationship, it came as no surprise that the two men were in love. The surprise was that it had taken them so long to admit it to each other. For Foreman, love was love go with it if you can get it - though man-man affections didn't turn _his_ crank. "I'll stay and take care of things." He said. "If Wilson's idiot enough to risk his career, he may as well do it right." Foreman spoke to Wilson. "Think you can trust the guy you tried to keel-haul?"

Wilson felt a little guilty about that, but not enough to apologize. "What about Neuro', Diagnostics?"

"Chase said he'd give me a hand." Wilson knew as well as Foreman did that here was no one else to leave in charge and still have some hope of getting away with this. Wilson had spun his official story to his assistant. Urgent personal family matters - non-medical so there would be no need for paper-work. He had taken a three week unpaid LOA. It ought to be enough to discourage gossip.

Besides, someone had to run the damn hospital while he was away. Wilson nodded. "Thanks."

Foreman shook his head at the Dean whom he'd just insulted. "The odds against pulling this off are - "

Wilson held up a hand in protest. "_Never_ tell me the odds." Just being with House was gamble enough. After twenty years of throwing the dice, he'd become a natural.

"Now get out, both of you, so I can get some sleep."

Wilson was pleasantly surprised by House's request and finally left him be after fussing with blankets for a few seconds, enduring a roll of House's eyes and a comment about his irritating, Jewish-grandmother-ish ways.

Accustomed to such murmurings, Wilson ignored it. House still needed several days of rest. The treatment appeared to be "taking", but it was touch and go yet.

Once Wilson was gone, and the bedroom door was shut, House waited until he heard Wilson and Foreman's footsteps walk away down the hall. Then he fetched his wallet from the bedside table, picked up the bedroom phone and quietly punched in the number for information. When the operator answered - "The number for American Airlines, Newark please."

Wilson waited impatiently for the announcement to board. It was going to be a long flight. He had made every arrangement he could think of. Where the hell was Cameron? She had only ten or fifteen minutes left before the flight was sure to begin boarding.

A person plopped down in the chair next to him. Wilson turned with enormous relief, saying "Oh, thank God. I thought you'd gotten lost or some-"

Instead of Cameron, it was House looking back at him.

Wilson sputtered. "What the hell are you doing here? Why are you out of bed at all? Where's Cameron?"

Wilson's cell phone trilled for his attention. He was about to ignore it, when a thought occurred. "Oh, you, you..." It had to be Cameron on the other line. Wilson flipped it open. "Cameron. Where are you?"

"At the hospital. Didn't you get my message?"

"No. What message?" All the while Wilson spoke into the phone, he stared at House with the dark eyes of malevolence, knowing that, some-screwy-how, Cameron being at the hospital and not where she was supposed to be, like at the airport, was all House's doing.

"I was paged." Cameron said. "Emergency. Some chemical fire." She explained telegram style into his outraged ear. "Dozens burned. All available hands needed. But when I got here, no one knew of any emergency. Someone left a phony message for me." A sarcastic hum and haw - "I wonder who that could have been?"

Wilson sighed like the world had no idea what kind of crappy week was about to descend down on his thin, long-suffering shoulders. "Yeah," He said staring at House who stared back as serenely as back-water, "I wonder."

Wilson ended the call with a jab of his index finger. House proceeded to lay the part he intended to play in Wilson's plan. "Canceled Cameron's ticket." He said unnecessarily. "Exchanged it for my own." House, to assuage Wilson's forehead worry dents, "_I_ purchase the damn can stay at the hotel and worry yourself into an earlier grave."

"House..." Wilson rubbed his eyes. A migraine already? Record time.

"Shut up. That's the deal, Wilson," House said. "Take it or leave it or I'll blow the whistle on the whole damn thing. You are _not_ going to ruin your career."

There was nothing for it. Cameron was out of the picture and House was sitting there beside him, smug in his jeans, rocker tee-shirt, leather jacket and cane. Once Wilson was suitably resigned to whatever disaster might befall them and listening quietly, House explained his reasoning further. "I'm a doctor but not currently practicing, so there's little chance I could lose my license and even if I do, so what? - better me than you.

"You need your license, hubby, so you can keep working to support me in the manner to which I've become accustomed. Foreman will watch the store. Cameron can help Chase mind the rest. You have nothing to lose by having me along instead."

"And who is supposed to assist me in the operation? In case you haven't thought of it, it can't be _you."_

"We'll hire a crew."

"Hire a crew? _Who_ for god's sake? I don't speak Chinese."

"What? You think they have illegal organ donor black-markets without illegal organ donor black market surgeons?"

Further discussion from Wilson's corner, pro's or con's were cut off by the announcer - "Flight 131, to Beijing via San Francisco and Tokyo, now boarding..."

House took Wilson's arm and let Wilson lead him where they may. "Come on, Wilson, cheer up. Even if this doesn't pan out, this is the first flight we've ever taken together." With a devilish smile. "Think of it as a vacation with a little surgery on the side." House's cane tap-tapped happily down the boarding ramp, followed by its hopeful owner. "Besides, _I_ speak Mandarin."

House handed their boarding passes to the pretty, petite brunette flight attendant who directed them to their First Class seats. When they were seated and belted in, he gave Wilson a quick peck on his cheek. "That's for being such an idiot and wanting to sacrifice yourself for a long shot like me."

Wilson took House's hand in his own and squeezed, and for once House let him do so without complaint. He didn't mind. House understood that Wilson needed the reassurance and comfort of physical contact. Though ultimately there was no way House would have let Wilson ruin his future. Nor was he _going_ to if this heart buying trip proved to be a pipe dream packed with nothing but trouble.

House sipped from a complimentary apple juice and asked another passing attendant who was hurrying up the aisle with the demo seat-belt and oxygen mask. "Hey, pal, what's the in-flight movie?"

XXXX

tbc asap


	5. Chapter 5

Walking in L.

Part V

By G. Waldo (formerly GeeLady)

Rating: NC-17 Adult.

Summary: Continuation of where One Step Closer Away leaves off. This story is H/W. Doctor James Wilson wants to save House - who is slowly dying - and he'll go to any length. Adult situations, language. This is NOT a death-fic'.

Disclaimer: Not mine...blah, blah, blah - though a fantasy never hurt anyone.

This story is in response to a collective request for a sequel from Richie117 and the members of the marvellous Hilson Forum at www. housemd. fora. pl /hilson, 22/ (No spaces of course) - I blame YOU! Thank you stimulating my creative juices against my will, Richie and Forum members - I'll get you for this! (Tee-hee). I hope the resulting fic' meets with your approval.

Just a reminder - this story acknowledges Season 3 but there-after does not follow cannon.

Here is the link to One Step Closer Away. Seriously, you oughta' read that first.

www. fan / s / 4600963/ 1/ One_Step_Closer_Away (No spaces of course)

_**This is it. It's over, no more House stories from this girl. It was a good ride.**_

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Wilson wound the old fashioned phone cord around his right fingers. Foreman listened with resigned patience as Wilson poured out the problems he had encountered en-route to House's new lease on life. "We got the heart. One hundred, sixty-nine thousand dollars. All of House's savings, and some of mine."

Though Foreman's voice was coming from thirteen thousand miles away, Wilson could imagine the man struggling to keep his expression neutral and his voice even. "That's all that House had? After twenty five years in practise?"

"He never was a good saver."

"Is it viable at least?"

"Not for long. I can't get a team together here. I might be able to get it home."

"If you perform the surgery here, illegally by the way, you'll lose your license, and who are you going to get to help you?"

Wilson was silent. He had no new suggestions.

Foreman asked "When did you get the heart? How much time have you got left?"

"About thirty hours."

"Me and Chase'll fly out. Cameron can handle things for a few days."

"You're the assistant Dean. And neither you nor Chase is a thoracic surgeon."

"Neither are you, and Cameron is _my_ assistant. At least I've done of other types of heart procedures, including valve repair. And what other choice do we have?"

Foreman was right of course. House had no other options. It was this or he could simply wait to die. "We need a place to do the surgery."

"I know someone over there - met him at a conference."

"This is a pretty big favour."

"Don't worry, I helped him ace a couple of tests – he owes me. We'll be on the first flight we can get."

Wilson gave him the hotel address, the number to his room and hung up.

"Troubles, oh Jewish One?" House called from the bathtub. Wilson could hear him splashing around. He imagined a mess of soap bubbles and soaked bath towels on the floor, and more soap bubbles clinging to House's skin. He wished it were currently possible to indulge in the physical fun such a picture was stirring up in his imagination. Perhaps soon he could. It had been weeks since he had done anything more than ply his lips to the man's cock, which had led to House's third heart attack and a plane trip to China.

"Foreman and Chase are flying out. They'll be here mid-morning."

"That'll leave Cameron in charge of Plainsboro." House sounded disapproving.

Wilson walked into the bathroom and leaned against the door. "You think she can't handle it?"

"She's a fine doctor but she's such a _girl_. The doily, doe-eyed weepy-type. By the time we get home, the place will look like a wedding reception."

Wilson watched him play with the soap bubbles for a few seconds. "Want me to wash your back?"

"No, mom. Want to climb in and play Submarine Commander? I'll let you put the scope up, then down, the up again...then _down_..." House wiggled his eyebrows.

"Uh, that's what got us in trouble the last time."

"Come on, _Captain_, show me your manhood, push me around a little. Make me salute you...again and again and again..."

"Charming and_ no_, it could affect your heart."

"You're so practical, and boring."

"It's why you love me."

"Yes, Wilson," House said with an eye-roll, "I love you because you're boring."

"Come on. We're going out to dinner."

"A good steak house?"

"A good noodle and vegetable house. No artery-clogging beef for you anymore."

"See? – _boring."_

Wilson reached over with one strong arm to help House get up out of the water. He handed his dripping husband a towel. "Here. Dry off and get sexy. This is a special dinner."

House looked at his sideways. "Uh oh. You're sad. I can see it in your droopy Basset-hound eyes. Is this a _Just-in-case-the-illegally-obtained-heart-isn't-any-good-this-is-our-last-romantic-dinner_ dinner?"

"No, this is our special and only evening out in Beijing dinner. Unless you've been here before?"

House dried his legs. "My dad was an Air Force pilot. I've been everywhere before. Where's my clothes."

Wilson disappeared into the adjoining bedroom. "Where they're supposed to be - in the chest of drawers."

House limped after him and began rummaging around in the drawers one after another, messing up Wilson's neatly folded work. "Where's my tee-shirts?"

"Still in the suitcase. You're wearing a suit for a change."

House glared a little, then instead of arguing, sighed and removed a folded, pressed dress shirt from one drawer and slipped it on. After pulling on some cotton underwear he located his grey suit in the room's only closet. Zipping up the fly he said "You realise you're only going to have to rip these off me later?"

"Doesn't matter because it's not your best suit. Though I did have it dry-cleaned."

House buttoned the jacket. "You are _such_ a girl."

"I like you in a suit. It's such a refreshing change from your usual hobo-esque ensemble."

"Do they have booze at this establishment you're dragging me to?"

"Not for you."

"This may be my last night on Earth and you're going to go all Jewish on me? Even now?"

"Even now."

House buttoned up his jacket, vowing to slip in a nip here and there when Wilson's back was turned.

XXX

The place was a ruckus of noise and glassware, music and bodies moving to the strobe lights above that illuminated only the briefest flashes of beautiful faces; men and women all young, all drunk, and all reveling in the health and vitality unique to the spring time of life. All taken for granted.

Wilson wished they could go back to the hotel. This place was not his choice; it had been House's who had wanted to "drool" over gorgeous young people.

"Maybe there's someone who wouldn't mind giving up a friends' heart for me."

"I doubt it."

"For the right price, they'd sell their best buddy."

Wilson sipped his weak Eastern beer. "Still a cynic huh?"

"My heart's caput. I can think any way I want to. I've earned it."

"How's that?"

"I've saved enough lives to have the right to envy them."

Wilson found it hard to argue. But tomorrow morning, is all went well, they would save his. He stood up. "I'm going to find the bathroom. You're _not_ going to drink anything." It wasn't spoken as a question exactly, but more as a reminder. House had given his word.

House rolled his eyes and sipped his tepid water. "I _promise_ – ge-eze."

House called after him. "Remember, this is Asia. You have to hover and _aim."_

After a few minutes, Wilson fought his way through the rolling bodies to their table once more only to discover House puffing away on a tiny cigarette rolled in brown leaf. He didn't even sit down. "What the _hell...?"_

House regarded him cool-y. "I didn't say I wouldn't _smoke_ anything."

Wilson sat opposite and forgot his beer. "I suppose that's pot."

House removed the tiny glowing stick from his mouth and looked at it with mild interest. "Do I look like a collage freshman?"

Wilson almost sputtered, suddenly guessing. "That's opium, isn't it? You're smoking _opium? _That's not in the play-book, House."

House ignored Wilson's disappointed stare and took in another leisurely puff. "Relax "Sergeant", this little heaven-stuffed tube contains only the mildest form of _paver somniferum, _which temporary health benefits include anti-inflammation, vasodilation - therefore improving circulation and decreasing heart-stress - and an increase in body temperature - all good things for a man with a weakened ticker."

Wilson was having none of House's glib reassurances. "We're going back to the hotel. _Now_."

"Stop being such a stiff." House looked away to the dance floor, an activity he had not fully participated in for many years. If it wasn't his leg betraying him, it was his organs. "I'm already dying, another hour of fun won't hurt."

Wilson sat back on the firm booth cushions heavily accented in a red and yellow flower print. The table between them was of thick solid walnut varnished to a mirror shine. House's reflection was indistinct but recognizable. He looked younger there. Wilson had always hard difficulty imagining House as a young man. He had always seemed older. A man passed all the foolishness of youth and set like concrete into the stubborn ways of only slightly less foolish middle-age. But his mind, although as old as his fifty-three year damaged heart, was in its prime. "You've never taken care of yourself."

"I always said life was too short to stress over the future and considering that I'm _dying_ I see no reason to alter that viewnow." He puffed the opium cigarette its tiny stub pinched between the index finger and thumb of his right hand, and then butted it out. "Do you?"

Wilson supposed he had a point. "Can we go now?"

"It hasn't been an hour.'

Wilson looked at his watch. "It's been twenty minutes and I'm sleepy. And you have surgery at Ten AM."

House sighed and manoeuvred his cane under him, getting to his feet with some effort and it made Wilson sharply catch his breath. The sight of House working to simply stand up sent a sharp pang to his heart.

House muttered. "Party pooper."

XXX

Wilson rose with a knot of fear in his stomach but worked to counter that gloomy feeling with hope in his heart and mind. Hope because foreman would be performing the surgery with Chase assisting. Their donor heart was he had been informed ready to be recovered from the donor (Wilson tried not to think whether this donor's family knew exactly where their beloveds' heart was going or what profit-minded middle-man might be arranging the highly illegal deed, of whether the family would receive any of the money. That part, he had been firmly informed, was none of his business), that AM and driven at breakneck speed to the hotel in a handy ice-cooler.

The phone rang. It was Foreman. "I just received a call from the ...the guy who arranged the donor heart – Chang or whatever his name is – he says he just had a last minute offer. A _better_ one."

Wilson's felt the snowy chill of fear. "How much more is the other party offering?"

"Forty –seven thousand bucks. You got any more money?"

"What I have left is to pay for the post-operative care House is going to need. I can't be there twenty-four-seven. I still have a practise – sort of."

"What do you want me to tell him?"

Wilson ran a hand through his wet hair. He could feel his stomach twist as he stood naked and shivering, drip-drying in the middle of the room. "Goddamn-it."

Foreman asked. "_That's_ what you want me to tell him?" Foreman himself sounded defeated. Still his voice was not hysterical or ever frustrated. But Wilson knew Foreman was more of a realist than he was and in this case the younger neurologist could see there were few options: find more money or give up the heart.

Wilson thought frantically. He could borrow against future earnings, which would mean they'd have next to nothing to live on in the meantime, or maybe beg his father for money (his father who did not approve of his son's homosexual relationship with a man almost as old as he was and which man had continually drained his son's savings account for the last nineteen years). He could ask his mother - she would say yes, she always said yes. But she had no access to her husband's savings without his approval since it was a joint-agreement account and a large amount to boot.

Wilson slumped on the edge of the bed, letting his mind wander aimlessly back over the years to House's almost pathological need for his friend, and his friend's money, and finally in the end, his friend's body as well. All those years that Wilson had assumed he was the hanger-on, the needy one, the pathetic best buddy who put up with abuse and the neglect. But at that moment in the cold room his heart screamed at him that it would not stand losing House, it would haunt him and ache inside his chest for the rest of his days if he did not do more to save him. It made its demands clear.

But money talked louder than even hearts and he just didn't have any more of the former. The money-pot was almost empty. His lack of special ink-marks printed on special paper rectangles altered everything in his and House's world and it was the way of the unfeeling, ink-papered system.

But maybe he was not meant to keep House? It was a thought that had often occurred to him prior to this crisis. Maybe God wanted something else for him now? Maybe it was time to stop struggling against the inevitable? He knew it was defeatist and slightly more religious than House – "slightly more meaning he believed in God and House didn't. Still, it was not a vocation he had spent much time participating in, despite his strong Jewish upbringing, and House would have first laughed at and then mocked him for it, but he could see no way through the problem. God didn't make loans.

And ordinary people, not even ordinary doctors, did not win every battle in life, no matter how hard they tried. Sadly House would agree. _"You don't get what you deserve - you just get what you get." _

But that's not what _he_ believed. Wilson rubbed his itching, tired eyes and dialed Foreman back. Next door he could hear his colleague's phone ringing. Foreman answered with his usual "Yeah?"

Simple words so difficult to say - "I n-need to borrow forty-five thousand dollars." He felt like a loser and a leech. Foreman would wonder, as others often did, at his dedication to House, a man who almost never showed affection openly or even admitted he had friends – or even needed them.

Foreman was quiet for a few seconds. "Are you sure?" He asked. It was not a question about his decision to borrow to save House but his willingness to go into abject servitude to his multiple debtors for the rest of his natural life.

"Yes." It was peace-bringing, making that decision. His heart slowed down and he felt calmer. Still, he hated the world that had cornered them. "Yes, if you can...make the loan I mean. I feel like a heel to even ask...I'm already beyond broke." Wilson hadn't expected Foreman or any of the team members to offer a donation. Even if they had a lot of money – which was unlikely - they were certainly not obligated and they all had their own bills to pay. Most young doctors start out their careers with a staggering student loan debt of a quarter of a million dollars on average. Specialists, like those on House's team, were burdened with even more.

Wilson sighed deeply. "Feel free to say no. I know House hasn't exactly been a delightful mentor."

Foreman sighed, blowing a long breath into the phone. "Sure."

Wilson had prepared himself for a no, not a yes, so it threw him for a few seconds. "Really, I mean..._really?_"

It was a huge loan and now it was Foreman's turn to pause and Wilson wondered if he was thinking up some convincing lie to tell himself why he was doing it, or why he should change his mind right now and back out. But instead all he said was "He's a good doctor."

It was a simple fact and maybe Foreman felt he did owe House something. But whatever the reason he'd take it. "Thanks." Wilson said into the phone, hardly believing his, and House's, good fortune. They would be as poor as church mice but House would have a few more years, and what were a few designer shirts and lattes anyway in the scheme of things?

XXX

Wilson asked the busy but smiling young woman. "I have two coach seat tickets reserved for the U.S – New Jersey." He had decided to pick the tickets up himself rather than have them couriered – and possibly lost on the way – to the hotel.

She asked him for his passport and other pertinent information, checked her monitor, printed out the required documents and slid them across the counter to him. Wilson glanced at the paperwork and started. "Um, Miss? I think there's been some mistake. These are first class to Chicago."

The dark haired lady took the papers back with an apologetic smile. "Let me see..." She handed them back. With a thick oriental accent - "These are correct sir. Two First Class tickets to Chicago with a three hour lay-over in London."

"But I didn't book any First class tickets and I'm not going to Chicago." He explained, getting in a bit of a panic. He had visions of himself and House sleeping a hard airport chairs over-night while the airliner sorted out their obvious mistake.

She smiled patiently for her slightly dense traveller. "But they _were_ booked last night, sir, for a Doctor James Wilson – that's you – and companion."

"That's impossible. Does it say who booked them?"

"Yes, by the companion - Doctor Gregory House."

It explained part of it but he was still confused. "House booked two flights to _Chicago_?" He asked her stupidly.

"Yes." She said her patience beginning to wearing as thin as her smile. "That's correct."

Wilson nodded, took the tickets and thanked her sheepishly.

Returning to the hotel and the sleeping House, he had half a mind to wake him and demand an explanation on the spot, but House needed his rest.

After a moment House stirred, however and Wilson handed him the tickets with just one question "Why?"

"Because I'm not going to let you go broke caring for me."

Wilson waved off any concern over money. "House, it's okay, we'll manage."

"It_ is_ okay because we're not doing it." House sat up and swung his throbbing leg to the floor.

Wilson shed his overcoat on a plush chair. "You need this operation, House. It will add years to your life and that makes the money well spent." Wilson sat back, satisfied with his decision. "Besides the arrangements are already made, tomorrow it's a go, so there's no point in arguing."

House pursed his lips and looked at his sore thigh. "You're right again there _is_ no point...because nothing's going ahead. I cancelled the operation."

Wilson thought the world had gone mad on him. "What?"

House said it more clearly. "I cancelled the operation. The heart's already going to the other family."

Yes, House had said the words and Wilson was sure he had heard them but still, it took a few seconds before their deadening echo died down enough that he could speak. "Are you _crazy_?" Wilson whispered. "House, you're _dying_." Wilson leaped to his feet and began a shuffling back and forth so violently across the carpet House was sure the place would be set on fire. "That heart was your life – it was your _salvation_."

"Oh _please_." House sat back as calm and collected as Wilson was frantic and agitated. "There are other options and I won't let you go broke for the rest of your life so I can smoke opium for a few more years. That was, by the way, my way of announcing my future drug-of-choice – _so_ better than Vicodin."

Wilson stopped and pulled his hair between all his fingers. "House, we spent weeks getting this arranged. I called in every favour I had to get this far and I...you..."

"Us...we...do pronouns matter in the long run? As long as we're together." A sentiment that from him sounded so false it was laughable. "Relax Wilson, it's all arranged. While you were begging Foreman for a bail-out I was calling an old friend in Chicago who's willing to get me in on a stem-cell trial. Forty percent improvement for many of his patients in the final stages of heart failure. Plus he's a good golfer."

Wilson collapsed back in the chair, deflated, defeated. "I thought you didn't have any old friends?"

"Well, I did sleep with his now ex-wife but I'm sure he's forgotten about that."

"You make me insane, House. You really do, you make me _insane_."

House smiled. Wilson was so pathetically easy to manipulate. "Go have a shower and relax. I'll order us some dinner. And don't worry Wilson, chances are my mom or yours will be dying soon and one of us'll get a nice tidy inheritance. Our money worries will be el'finito."

Wilson said wryly. "You're a ray of sunshine House."

When the bathroom door closed and the water had been running long enough to assure him that Wilson was under its spray, House called up the party he wished to speak to. "Hello?" He did a fairly good impression of Wilson at his most sentimental. "This is Doctor James Wilson. Yes, that's right, the gay doctor with the dying lover. I'm afraid we were not able to come up with the money. You can let the heart go to that other needy family. I'm sure he'll get some good years out of it. Yes, yes, and my Jewish blessings on you, oh and good for you for holding out for the best offer. Only business after all, Right?" He hung up.

Wilson was also often gullible, but it was one of the things he loved most about him.

XXX

The flight to Chicago felt quicker than it should have, the Stem Cell doctor not as reassuring as he thought he ought to have been, and their shorter flight home to New Jersey left him so tired by the time they arrived at their urban household he was trembling on his feet. Everything here felt foreign and cramped. Everything had shrunk, it seemed, in Wilson's eyes; the world, their house, the kitchen. Even the tea-pot he was making ready. His hands felt nothing but did their duties. His mind was strangely blank but obeyed his will.

House had done his best to cheer him up and then when that failed, has chastised him for being such a "simpering weenie". "Everybody dies." House had said yet again.

Wilson had nodded silently and poured the tea. Finally he looked over at the man he wondered how he would live without. "Just let me get _used_ to the idea of losing the person I love most – okay? That alright with you?"

House knew when to shut-up and he did. He drank his tea.

XXX

Wilson returned to the office, leaving House in the capable hands of the day nurse. Wilson had gone to great pains to choose a woman who could handle House's stubborn pride and antagonistic personality. Marjorie did so with stunning success. She was twenty years experienced and stood her ground like a nun holding the Bible – or in this case The Nurses Hand-Book - in one hand and a wide leather belt in the other.

Wilson nibbled dispiritedly at his boring cheese and lettuce sandwich. He had taken to spending most of his lunch hours in his office, even though his patients were fewer these days. He simply did not have the energy anymore to attend to a full roster of sick people and House too. His income was drastically reduced but they would survive. It wouldn't be long anyhow until he would be back to paying just for himself again. The stem cell treatment was a last resort and they all knew it. The thought depressed him even more than the tasteless sandwich.

His office door swung open and Foreman entered. As was his habit he did not sit down but walked to stand before his desk. Foreman regarded him for a few seconds, and then announced "I've been reading up on this stem cell treatment."

Wilson abandoned his sandwich and wiped his mouth with as paper napkin. "Yes?" He tried not to sound childishly hopeful. It was hard.

"This guy is getting some good results. There's a strong chance House will recover enough to have at least another few years."

Wilson wasn't as optimistic. "I did some reading too. Some showed improvement in the damaged areas of the heart, but some also showed an increase of scar tissue."

"Right. But the stem cells this doctor friend of House is using are myo-stem cells taken from a healthy area of the House's own heart muscle. It's a new idea."

Wilson liked new ideas. "I know."

"In most subjects – and there have been only about a dozen so far – showed anywhere from sixteen to thirty-four percent improvement in the myo-action at the site of the infarc', and in most cases with minimal or zero additional scarring."

Foreman knew Wilson new all this of course. It was still risky. "And that translates to what?"

"To like I said, maybe another one to three healthier years."

It was better than nothing, but not as good as a healthy transplant. Wilson's head was spinning. "House doesn't feel any different." He knew it was too soon to tell, but he couldn't take the chance on letting hope build up again only to see it dashed once more. He was too tired.

"Not yet and I said _maybe_." Foreman underlined the other side for him.

"So when will we know?"

"Once the treatments are done." Ever the realist, Foreman added "There is a small chance it could make things worse."

"He's dying. What could be worse?"

Foreman shrugged. "Lots of things like his heart giving out. In his current condition he's a risk every time he goes under anesthesia. He could die on the table."

One treatment per month every two months. Five more treatments in total. That was a lot of risk. Still, House was a stubborn bastard. If anyone could survive it, and thrive, it was him.

"How's he doing?" Foreman asked.

Wilson looked at his watch. It was a little ironic. House was supposed to be resting of course but "Probably cooking dinner and drinking beer." But it was comforting to still have someone to go home to.

XXX

It was House's breathing that woke him up.

Wilson rolled over in bed and sat up. House was already seated and clutching at his chest.

"Heart attack?" Wilson asked, feeling stupid for even asking. What else would it be?

House shook his head. He appeared oddly calm. He nodded. "Ah-arrhythmia...hard t'...to catch my breath."

Wilson was almost used to theses midnight trips to the emergency. After an hour House's cardiologist found Wilson in the waiting room and called him into his office. Regular patients he would have spoken to out in the hall but Wilson was a colleague. A certain amount of decorum was required.

Doctor Langevin strolled to his office chair and mentioned something about coffee or tea. Wilson declined, anxious to hear what he had to say. The man's slowness was almost unbearable. Wilson was close to ripping his hair out and screaming when Langevin said "Well, this is a rather good sign."

Wilson stopped in mid-pace. "Sorry. What's a good sign?"

Langevin realised how ludicrous what he just said must have sounded. "Um, what I mean is an arrhythmia is of course never a good thing but in this case, the patien – that is Doctor House responded immediately to the drug and he's, well, just fine."

Fine can mean many things: fine for now, fine for anyone on the precipice of death, fine for a man who had abused his body for most of the last fifteen years, or **f**inicky, **i**nsecure, **n**eurotic and **e**motional. "How could he _possibly_ be fine?"

Langevin indicated the visitors chair for the thirds time to his colleague and Wilson finally, reluctantly, sat.

"I mean Doctor Wilson that your friend's heart, although it is still in the early stages of showing improvement due to the stem cell treatments, _has_ improved. This arrhythmia is a common side effect and one we have encountered often during the trials. His heart is still sick you understand but it _is_ better despite the arrhythmia. Once his final treatment is over, he will eventually be fitted with a defibrillator implant to control the sinus action. But all in all, I'd say he's turning out to be a success. He can home home today."

Wilson allowed the tiniest spark of hope to grow again. "Are you _certain_?"

Langevin, not used to his diagnoses being questioned, frowned a little. "Doctor Wilson, in my medical opinion, if he's careful and follows our recommended regime, he'll be gaining several more good years at least."

House would be the first to say it: stop simpering! Wilson stood and shook the other doctor's hand. He mumbled his thanks and slipped out the door.

On the drive home with House snoozing in the passenger seat, Wilson phoned his office assistant and then Foreman. "I'm taking three months off." Foreman was quiet on the other end and Wilson said "Because it's good news, not bad."

"Morrison can probably cover your clients in the meantime." Foreman said. "Take care of him." He hung up.

Wilson pulled into the parking lot of his favorite Asian restaurant and, exiting the car as quietly as possible, went in and ordered dinner for two. He returned to the car with a large paper bag full of take-out selections. They would celebrate Wilson-style, by eating stuff that tasted good but was fairly heart-safe and drinking alcohol-free beer. Celebrating was good, but the House's heart and liver both needed tender care.

House could smell the stuff the moment Wilson opened the car door. "Eating in style tonight?" He asked, yawning.

Wilson nodded. "Yup. Even you should find no reason to complain."

House squinted an eye at him. "Hmm, even with a dicky heart I'm still pretty clever you know."

Wilson smiled to himself.

XXX

A good dinner behind them, House lay back on the couch and Wilson joined him in some well deserved slouching. "Wanna' watch something?" Wilson asked, flipping through the menu.

House asked. "What about money? You're staying home with me for three months? This will cut into our living budget of ten dollars a week."

Wilson shrugged. "Like you said, eventually my parents will die and I'll get an inheritance."

House was suspicious of his husband's cavalier attitude that was clearly being put-on for his sake. Wilson had far too much respect for his parents - and for people in general - to speak of anyone's dying in so casual a fashion. "Come on. Your dad's going to out-live me and probably _you_. He's even more a stubborn Jew than you are. What are we going to do?"

"Stop worrying, I have some savings bonds I can cash in. Besides if I don't have to pay for a nurse then that saves us money right there."

House muttered. "I could sell my piano."

Wilson turned and looked at him. "Over my dead body. Now what do you want to watch?"

House refrained from jumping on his do-gooder, idiotic husband and molesting him right and proper. Unfortunately he was far too tired to risk such a romp and settled for taking in a good show. "You're an idiot."

"I know."

"I'll bet you were born wearing an apron."

"Yeah, House, I love you too. Now shut-up."

XXXX END

Readers: _Please let me know if there are any glaring errors in this. I've gone over this so many times, I'm cross-eyed and can no longer see._


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